by Shaun Clarke
continued doggedly, ‘will be followed by a week of
especially demanding mental and physical testing.
Those who fail, even through injury, will be returned to
their original units without recourse to appeal.’ ‘Same as happens now,’ Marty said, ‘only even
tougher. Right?’
‘Right,’ Bulldog said. ‘Being twice as tough to pass,
it’ll rid us at an early stage of those who’re
psychologically and physically unsuitable, leaving us
with only the crème de la crème.’
‘What’s that mean?’ O’Connor asked suspiciously. ‘It means the very best,’ Marty informed him. ‘You
know? The cream always rises to the top.’
‘Does it?’ O’Connor asked, looking puzzled. ‘In coffee,’ Marty clarified.
‘I always have milk with my coffee,’ O’Connor told
him. ‘I keep cream for dessert.’
‘You’re so common,’ Marty said.
‘Okay, Staff Sergeant, what’s next?’ Captain
Kearney asked.
‘Those passing basic training and selection,’
Bulldog continued, casting a baleful look at Marty and
O’Connor, ‘then go on to a few months of further
training. I’ve dubbed this “continuation training”. It
consists of patrol tactics for every conceivable situation
and environment, including jungle, desert, mountain, air
and sea; advanced signalling, demolition, first-aid and
combat survival. Anyone failing at any point would be
RTU’d instantly.’
‘Aye, aye, aye,’ Marty whispered melodramatically,
shaking his right hand as if in agony. ‘It hurts just to
think of it.’
‘So what happens next?’ Paddy asked, ignoring
Marty’s histrionics.
‘The survivors – ’
‘Good word!’ O’Connor interjected.
‘ – go on to special, extensive jungle training,
learning what we picked up in Malaya, preferably in a
real jungle environment. If they manage to survive that,
they’ll be given a static-line parachute course and set a
number of actual jumps.’
‘Still being RTU’d at any point if they don’t come
up to scratch.’
‘Right, Marty. Exactly.’
‘And those passing,’ O’Connor speculated, ‘are
finally allowed to wear the beige beret and Winged
Dagger badge.’
‘Yes. But their training isn’t over yet.’
‘I always knew you liked tormenting your troopers,’
Marty said, ‘but this is starting to sound like pure
sadism. As the virgin said to the whore when the latter
pulled out her chains, whips and gags: “Excuse me, but
is all this really necessary?”’
O’Connor laughed at that one, but Bulldog glared at
him, shutting him up. Paddy Kearney rested his chin in
his hands like a man deep in thought. ‘Continue,’ he
said.
Bulldog nodded affirmatively, grateful for the
encouragement. ‘Once badged, they go on to cross-
training proper. This will include escape-and-evasion,
or E and E, and resistance-to-interrogation, or R and I,
exercises. It’ll also include high-altitude, low-opening,
or HALO, insertion techniques; special boat skills for
amphibious warfare and insertions by sea and river;
extensive training in mountain climbing, preferably in
arctic conditions, including snow; lessons in the driving
and maintenance of every kind of military vehicle,
including motorbikes; and close-quarter battle, or CQB,
skills in a special building designed to simulate indoor firefights against subversives or terrorists, with pop-up targets and false decoys. I’ve tentatively named the
envisaged building as the “Killing House”.’
‘Fucking beautiful!’ O’Connor murmured, throwing
Marty a sneaky grin.
‘Anything else?’ Paddy Kearney asked, smiling
slightly, dangerously, the way he used to smile at Marty
in the North African desert when he was about to spring
a surprise.
‘Yes,’ Bulldog said. ‘Last but not least, they’ll be
given comprehensive lessons in advanced medicine and
languages relevant to anywhere the regiment might be
sent to in the next decade. By the time they finish that
lot, your SAS troopers will be the finest and most
versatile in the world. No question about it.’
Paddy stared at Bulldog for some time, that small
smile still playing at his lips, then he stubbed his cigar
out and leaned back in his chair with his hands folded
behind his head.
‘Now isn’t that interesting?’ he asked rhetorically.
‘Great minds truly think alike.’ The others looked
questioningly at him. He observed their expressions as
he told them that their commander, Lieutenant-Colonel
Phillip Mackie, had already been talking about a similar
kind of cross-training, in which each trooper would be
trained in all of the required skills while specializing in
one particular task.
‘Really?’ Bulldog said.
‘Really. In fact, he’s already discussed the
possibility of dividing the Sabre Squadrons of the
regiment into four sixteen-man troops. Each of them,
while manned by men with cross-over skills, will have
its specialist role. So far, he’s decided on a Mobility
Troop, specializing in operations in Land Rovers, fastattack vehicles and motorbikes; a Boat Troop, specializing in amphibious warfare and insertions; a Mountain Troop, specializing in mountain-climbing and operations in Arctic environments; and an Air Troop to be used for free-fall parachuting, tree-jumping and HALO insertions. Naturally all of the men will be interchangeable as the need arises – so your ideas for a special SAS selection-and-training course could go down nicely with him. Congratulations, Bulldog.
You’ve anticipated all of it.’
‘Thanks, boss.’ Bulldog grinned laconically at
Marty and Pat O’Connor, then finished off his pint of
bitter and smacked his lips with self-satisfaction. ‘Nice one, Bulldog,’ Marty said. ‘You’re not only
going to run the new candidates into the ground, but
you’ll also work the directing staff to death – and we’ll
be the new DS, right?’
‘Right,’ Bulldog said. ‘What else can you limp dicks
do when there’s no wedding to go to and no new war to
fight? Either you recycle your former training or you
instruct the new candidates and help shape the new
selection-and-training course at the same time. As for
being worked to death, it’s up to you to set a good
example, like the DS in Aldershot did for you. You only
demand of the candidates what you’ve already done
yourself. So everything that they’re going to do, you lot
will do first. At least it’ll keep you from wanking.’ ‘Thanks a lot,’ Marty said.
‘For nothing,’ O’Connor added.
‘We have to be cruel to be kind,’ Bulldog said, ‘and
believe me, you’ll thank me for it later.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Marty said.
Removing his hands from the back of his head,
Paddy finished off his whisky, then sighed, shook his
&
nbsp; head from side to side, and said, sounding regretful, ‘It
all sounds wonderful to me. What a pity I won’t be taking part in it.’ The others stared at him in silence for a moment, wondering what he was implying. He toyed distractedly with his empty glass, then continued: ‘The rules and regulations of the regiment have now been firmly established. As you know, one of the rules is that no officer can remain with the regiment for more than three years, though he may occasionally return for another three-year stint. As you also know, this is why
I’m being RTU’d to Number 8 Commando.’
‘You’ll be back, boss,’ Marty said.
‘No,’ Paddy said, ‘I don’t think so. This was my
final stint with the regiment.’
This time the silence around the table was almost
palpable, lying heavily upon each of them as they
glanced uneasily at one another, their eyes troubled and
questioning.
‘What does that mean, boss?’ Bulldog eventually
asked. ‘Why your final stint? You can come back to the
regiment in three years, so what’s the big problem?’ Paddy’s green gaze was regretful and his slight
smile was sad. ‘I’ll soon be retiring from the service,’
he said. ‘It’s bad enough that I can’t spend any longer
than three years at one stretch with the regiment; worse
is the fact that I’m reaching the age where, even if I
returned, I could only be used in an administrative
capacity– and that, I’m afraid, is not for me. Civvy
Street, on the other hand, has a wide range of
possibilities for men such as me. It’s not ideal, but it’s
better than what I’d find if I stayed on in the regiment
without the chance of further active service. I couldn’t
bear to be stuck behind a desk here in Hereford while
you ladswent off to fight the wars. I just couldn’t stand
it. Not in the SAS and not even in the commandos. In
fact, nowhere in the army. So I’m planning to retire
altogether and set myself up in my own business in
Civvy Street. I want to be my own man.’
Marty felt a dreadful sense of loss as those words
sank in. To hide this, he lit another cigarette and
exhaled a cloud of smoke. He couldn’t imagine the
regiment without Paddy. It just didn’t seem right
somehow.
No one said anything for a long time, until Bulldog,
clearly agitated as well, shook his head disbelievingly.
‘I can’t believe…’ But Paddy dropped his hand lightly
on Bulldog’s shoulder to shake him gently,
affectionately. Then he pushed his chair back and stood
up.
‘Before I leave, gentlemen, please let me say this.
You were talking earlier about how the SAS is a special
regiment and how we must ensure it remains that way.
This is your responsibility. Though SAS officers can
only serve three years at a stretch, NCOs can make the
regiment a career. This gives them an authority unique
to the military forces. So, given that only the NCOs
have lasting authority within the regiment, it’s up to you
to ensure that its moral precepts and unique skills aren’t
squandered or lost altogether. I trust that in my absence
you’ll do this. Now goodnight to you all.’
Turning away, he walked hurriedly across the
smoky room, skirting around the crowded tables to
leave by the front door. When he was gone, the others
stared silently at one another, none of them knowing
what to say, all slightly choked up.
‘Well, here we are,’ Bulldog finally managed,
‘celebrating the opening of Bradbury Lines and being
told that our favourite officer won’t be sharing it with
us. It’s the end of an era.’
‘Fuck it,’ Marty said, feeling close to tears, but
pushing his chair back and standing up. ‘I’m going to
get another round of drinks. Let’s all get blotto.’ No one argued with that.
Chapter Three
When Marty stepped down from the train that had brought him to London from Hereford, he was in a state of shock because he had come to attend the funeral of his father, who had died unexpectedly of a heart attack two days before. Deeply upset that he had not been present when his father passed away, had not been able to speak any final words to him, he felt that he had lost a whole world and been finally, brutally, wrenched from the last hold on his childhood. He had aged overnight.
Not wishing to go home immediately, still trying to prepare himself for what would be a painful experience, he wandered the streets of the West End for an hour or two, dropping in and out of a couple of pubs, fortifying himself, distracting himself with the changes he saw all around him.
London, he noticed quickly, was a city given over to the new youth culture. The Soho streets of 1961 were packed with a mixture of ‘Teddy Boys’ in long, velvet- collared jackets, drainpipe trousers and string ties, who lounged in threatening gangs outside the pubs and coffee bars, and other adolescents, variously dressed, all listening to the rock ‘n’ roll music that thundered out of jukeboxes. Marty still liked Vera Lynn, Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra; he did not like rock ‘n’ roll and was deeply suspicious of a youth ‘culture’ that included in its philosophy a contempt for authority and personal discipline. Also, these young people despised soldiers and he found that offensive.
Having imbibed enough alcohol to help him face what was to come, he took a taxi to Golders Green crematorium where he found his distraught family and relatives gathered for the ceremony. Sitting beside his weeping mother, he slipped into a self-protective trance as the minister conducted the last rites and the coffin moved into the furnace. Mercifully, he soon found himself outside again, breathing gratefully of the crisp autumnal air, dazedly shaking hands with old friends and relatives.
So distraught was he that he hardly noticed half of these people, not really focusing upon them. He did not even see that Lesley was present until he was at the wake, held back home in Crouch End. There, as he sat in the kitchen, deliberately staying close to the drinks table, Lesley entered from the crowded living room. Leaning forward, she kissed the top of his head, then stepped back to study him.
‘You look good,’ she said. Though she had put on some weight, her hair was still dark and she was as attractive as ever in a black skirt, matching jacket and white blouse. Though she was clearly upset by the funeral, her gaze held no malice towards him.
‘So do you,’ Marty said, meaning it. Lesley glanced around the kitchen, then waved her right hand, indicating the guests crowding the living room, drinking, smoking and making polite conversation, most of it, as Marty had overheard, laced with fond reminiscences about his father. ‘I’m so sorry about this,’ she said. ‘Your dad was a really good man.’
‘I know,’ Marty said. ‘He also thought well of you. He was hurt when we divorced.’
Lesley smiled. ‘It was only us who were mismatched, Marty. Not me and your parents.’
‘That’s true enough.’ Marty managed to pour himself another beer without moving out of his chair. ‘Where are the kids?’ he asked, glancing into the living room and hoping to see them.
‘I didn’t think that taking them to a funeral would be a good idea.’
Though disappointed, he said, ‘I agree. So how are they?’
In fact, he saw them about once a month and was pleased at how well they were turning out. Johnny was fifteen and Kay was a shy fourteen-year-old. Allowed to visit them when he wanted, which was at least once a month unless he was overseas, Marty had remained close to them and not
ed that they were close to each other. He had Lesley to thank for that.
‘They’re fine,’ she replied. ‘Johnny’s preparing for the future by aping Elvis Presley and begging me to buy him some drainpipe trousers for his birthday. Kay thinks she’s Brenda Lee, the little lady with the big voice, and I often catch her experimenting with my makeup, pursing her lips in the mirror.’
‘Two normal, healthy kids, then.’
‘Yes. They both send you their love.’
‘Tell them I’ll come and see them later this month.’
‘They’d like that,’ Lesley said.
She was still living in the old house in Weybridge, which was where Marty went to visit the kids at times when Lesley had conveniently arranged to be absent. While entering his former home never failed to give him a brief feeling of loss (it was a larger and much nicer house than the one he shared with Ann Lim in Hereford), he was deeply grateful to Lesley for letting him visit when he wished and for taking pains, as she had done, to ensure that their separation remained amicable. Clearly she had done this mainly for the children, to avoid upsetting them, but she had also done it because, as she had told him, animosity between him and her would bring little benefit to either of them. That decision, Marty thought, had shown how sensible she was and it had, indeed, made life a lot easier for both of them. Now, aided by his generous alimony payments, which came out of income still accruing from his old construction company (he was still a sleeping partner), and with additional income from her own work as a legal secretary, she was financially comfortable and seemingly content with the life she was leading. This included a busy social life, including charity work. Certainly, she still looked attractive and seemed in robust health.
‘So what about you?’ he asked, glancing along the kitchen to see his clearly distraught but bravely composed mother sipping tea and chatting to friends. ‘Any man in your life at the moment?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. Charles Pugh. A lawyer I met through the company I work for. He works for another, smaller legal company and took over the business side of some of the charities I’m involved with. A nice man. Marched for CND. Votes Labour, naturally. Not your type at all.’
‘I’ve nothing against anyone who votes Labour. I just don’t happen to vote for them myself.’
‘You should. You’re still working-class, Marty.’
‘Like you used to be. Now you live in middle-class Weybridge. An area more Tory than Weybridge I just can’t imagine.’
