Delta Force Read Free Page B

street from the officers’ mess. Our rooms were completely furnished, and once we had unloaded our luggage from Major Newell’s auto, the wives took Katherine and the girls on a tour of the town that would be their home for the next year.
    I felt very comfortable in these new surroundings, even if I was surrounded by men from Cornwall and Wales, Liverpool and Glasgow, whose various brogues, accents, and dialects I would have to learn. I expect they had as much trouble with my Georgia drawl.
    After the second day, biting at the bit, I was called up to the regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson.
    Once the pleasantries were concluded, I was informed I would be going to A Squadron. This was disappointing. I had hoped I would go to D Squadron. It was commanded by a big redheaded Scotsman named Harry Thompson, who had been to the States and understood Americans. In the short time I’d been in Bradbury Lines I’d learned that Thompson was part of the team that had so successfully dealt with the CTs (Communist Terrorists) in Malaya.
    A Squadron was commanded by Maj. Peter Walter. A small man and a very sharp dresser, he perceived himself—and was in fact—quite a ladies’ man. He’d come up through the SAS ranks, beginning as a sergeant during the Emergency. Walter was a very hard man who had the reputation of being physically and mentally tough. He also wanted you to think he was without scruples. His nickname was “the Rat.” At first I wasn’t very comfortable with him.
    There were four troops in A Squadron, and I would command Three Troop. I was taken by Major Walter to A Squadron Headquarters where I was introduced to my temporary troop sergeant, “Gypsy” Smith. Sergeant Smith then escorted me to Three Troop’s billets.
    Although the camp was World War II vintage, it showed none of its age. Bradbury Lines was, in fact, growing old graciously. The grounds and gardens were meticulously maintained by a crew of gardeners. The barracks had been recentlypainted on the outside a dazzling white with blue trim.
    Straight lines, square corners, yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full. That’s what I’d been taught. That’s what I knew. I was a captain in the United States Army. Straight lines. Square corners. Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full!
    I walked into Three Troop’s wooden barracks. The long room was a mess. It was worn and dirty. Rucksacks (called Bergens) were strewn everywhere. Beds were unkempt, uniforms scruffy. It reminded me more of a football locker room than an army barracks. Two of the troopers—I never learned if it was done for my benefit or not—were brewing tea on the floor in the middle of the room.
    I commented on the state of the room and on the men. I added, “What we need to do is get this area mopped down, the equipment cleaned, straightened, and stored, and the tea brewed outside.” Two troopers, Scott and Larson, spoke up at once. “No, sir. That’s not what we want to do. Otherwise, we might as well go back to our regular regiments. One of the reasons we volunteered for the SAS was so we wouldn’t have to worry about the unimportant things.” I didn’t understand that. I thought I’d been given a group of roughnecks to command. Also, I suspected the troops were not comfortable with me. Who was this bloody Yank who didn’t understand at all about freebooting behavior in a special operations unit? But I felt I had to bring the troop into line. My job, as I saw it, was to get them dressed smartly and to make parade soldiers out of them. Yes, sir! That was my job. I went home that night and told Katherine I felt I might not be able to handle this.
    Peter Walter, my squadron commander, would normally have an officers’ call at the end of each day. We’d go into his office and talk about the day. I found that whenever one of the officers addressed Major Walter he’d use his first