Chris Ryan Read Free

operations as opposed to 'black' work, like that on the SP team, for which you wear black gear from head to foot.) When you've been out of the system � that is, away from military duties � for a while, as I had, your kit's not as it should be, and it takes a couple of weeks of hard graft to get everything sorted out. On the Alpine guides' course in France, Italy and Ger�many I had learnt German, skiing, climbing, mountain rescue work, weather prediction and how to clear ava�lanches with explosives, but no real soldiering. Before that, I'd done nine months on the SP team as an assaulter � so again there was no military work involved. After Germany, I returned to the SP team for another nine months, this time as Sniper Commander. So altogether I'd been in black roles for at least three years, and had not worried too much about having the right equipment at hand, all sorted into the cor�rect places. Now I brought my webbing and bergen home to paint them in desert camouflage colours. We were having an ex�tension built on to our house, and a labourer called John was digging the footings. Seeing me at work outside, he came up and asked what I was doing. `Just painting my webbing.' `Those colours are a bit light, aren't they?' `Well,' I said carefully, 'you'd be surprised. It works quite well.' In fact he was right: I had the colours too light and sandy, as I was to find out to my cost. One of the rules within the Regiment is that all married men should have life insurance. Jan and I had a policy already, so we were all right; but as soon as the deployment was announced, pressure to take out policies fell on those who weren't already covered. Naturally the insurance com�panies put up the shutters, having heard where we were going, and those who did get policies had to pay high pre�miums. The result was a minor panic: in normal times the Stand By . . . Stand By . . . Go!7 guys try to get away without paying premiums, but now, with a war in prospect, the future suddenly looked very different. On New Year's Eve, with my departure imminent, Jan and I got a friend to babysit our daughter Sarah, who was just over two, and went downtown to a bar. But after one drink we looked at each other, returned home, and sat at the dining-room table, discussing painful questions � What would happen if I didn't come back? Should she marry again? Where would Sarah go to school? � and so on. We stayed up until three or four o'clock, and became very emo�tional. I wasn't concerned about myself or about Jan, who I knew would be able to look after herself. The person I wor�ried about was Sarah; if I went, what sort of a life would she have? If the Gulf conflict were to escalate into a major war, the SAS would become a small cog in a huge machine. Until then � during my service, at any rate � we'd always been the ones who called the shots, who had responded to particular threats. Even in Northern Ireland, we could to some extent choose our own ground. Another advantage was that our physical appearance was always much the same as that of the natives. In Iraq we would be operating among Arabs, im�mediately recognisable as aliens, without any friendly forces or civilians to back us up. On top of these worries was the threat of chemical warfare. It was impossible to say how dangerous things might become, but the uncertainty alone was enough to put the wind up even seasoned operators. Next evening Sarah's godfather, John, a friend of mine in `A' Squadron who'd been my best man, came round to the house and wrote out an unofficial will � a letter saying that if he was killed, I (or Janet) was to make sure that his house was sold; �10,000 would go to Sarah, the rest of the money to his mother, his stereo to his brother, and so on. Packing our kit took some time. All our weapons were bundled together and went separately, rolled up in canvas sleeves. When I asked the SQMS if he'd included pistols, he said, 'Yeah � twenty of them,'