Bravo two zero Read Free

talked about different scenarios.
        We guessed the parameters of our operations would be loose, but that wouldn't mean we could just go around blowing up power lines or whatever else we saw. We're strategic troops, so what we do behind enemy lines can have serious implications. If we saw a petroleum line, for example, and blew it up just for the fucking badness of it, we might be bringing Jordan into the war: it could be a pipeline from Baghdad to Jordan which the Allies had agreed not to destroy so that Jordan still got its oil.
        So if we saw an opportunity target like that, we'd have to get permission to deal with it. That way we could cause the maximum amount of damage to the Iraqi war machine, but not damage any political or strategic considerations.
        If we were caught, we wondered, would the Iraqis kill us? Too bad if they did. As long as they did it swiftly-if not, we'd just have to try and speed things up.
        Would they fuck us? Arab men are very affectionate with each other, holding hands and so on. It's just their culture, of course; it doesn't necessarily mean they're shit stabbers, but the question had to be asked. I wasn't that worried about the prospect, because if it happened to me I wouldn't tell. The only scenario that did bring me out in a sweat was the possibility of having my bollocks cut off. That would not be a good day out. If the rag heads had me tied down naked and were sharpening their knives, I'd do whatever I could to provoke them into slotting me.
        I'd never worried about dying. My attitude to the work I am expected to do in the Regiment has always been that you take the money off them every month and so you're a tool to be used-and you are. The Regiment does lose people, so you cater for that eventuality. You fill in your insurance policies, although at the time only Equity & Law had the bottle to insure the SAS without loading the premium. You write your letters to be handed to next of kin if you get slotted. I wrote four and entrusted them to a mate called Eno. There was one for my parents that said: "Thanks for looking after me; it can't have been easy for you, but I had a rather nice childhood. Don't worry about me being dead, it's one of those things." One was for Jilly, saying: "Don't mope around-get the money and have a good time. PS 500 pounds is to go behind the bar at the next squadron piss-up. PPSI love you." And there was one for little Kate, to be given to her by Eno when she was older, and it said: "I always loved you, and always will love you." The letter to Eno himself, who was to be the executor of my will, said: "Fuck this one up, wanker, and I'll come back and haunt you."
        At about 1900 one evening, I and another team commander, Vince, were called over to the squadron OC's table. He was having a brew with the squadron sergeant major.
        "We've got a task for you," he said, handing us a mug each of tea.
        "You'll be working together. Andy will command. Vince will be 2 i/c.
        The briefing will be tomorrow morning at 0800-meet me here. Make sure your people are informed. There will be no move before two days."
        My lot were rather pleased at the news. Quite, apart from anything else, it meant an end to the hassle of having to queue for the only two available sinks and bogs. In the field, the smell of clean clothes or bodies can disturb the wildlife and in turn compromise your position, so for the last few days before you go you stop washing and make sure all your clothing is used.
        The blokes dispersed, and I went to watch the latest news on CNN. Scud missiles had fallen on Tel Aviv, injuring at least twenty-four civilians. Residential areas had taken direct hits, and as I looked at the footage of tower blocks and children in their pajamas, I was suddenly reminded of Peckham and my own childhood. That night, as I tried to get my head down, I found myself remembering all my old haunts and thinking about