Read Online Bravo two zero by Andy McNab - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andy McNab
Tags: Fiction, General, english, History, Military, Undercover operations, Personal Narratives, Iraq, 1991, True Military, Combat Stories, True war & combat stories, Persian Gulf War
Ads: Link
container.
When it was full, one of us would carry it a mile or so into the bush while on patrol, move a rock and dig a hole underneath it, empty the can, and replace the earth and rock. This would prevent detection by smell, animal interest, or insect activity.
I delegated various other tasks.
"Chris, you sort out the medic kit."
He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.
"Legs will sort out the scaley kit."
For some reason unknown to me, signalers are usually called scaleys. I knew that among other tasks Legs would make sure we had spare antennas for the patrol radio, so that if we were compromised when the antenna was out we could just leave it out and move. We would still be able to communicate using the spare antenna. He would also check that everything had a fresh battery, that we had spare batteries, and that everything was actually working.
"Vince and Bob, can you sort out the dems kit?"
They would take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish, "If the enemy see as much as a spent match on the ground in front of them, they'll know you were there," the instructor on my Combat Survival course had said. "And if they find it behind them they'll know it was Special Forces."
"Mark, you can sort out the food and jerricans."
The Kiwi would draw eight men's rations for fourteen days from Stores.
You strip it all down, and keep just one set of brew kit in your belt kit. I throw away the toilet paper because in the field I shit by squatting and therefore don't need it. But everybody keeps the plastic bags for shitting into. You simply tie a knot in them after use and put the contents into your bergen.
Everything must go with you, as nothing can be left to compromise your position, old or present. If you just buried shit it would create animal interest, and if discovered the ingredients could be analyzed.
Rice content, for example, would indicate Iraqis; currants or chili would point to Westerners.
There's always a lot of banter to swap menus. The unwritten rule is that whatever you don't want you throw into a bin liner for the other blokes to sort through. Stan didn't like Lancashire hot pot but loved steak and vegetables, so unbeknownst to him we swapped the contents. He would go over the border with fourteen days' worth of his least favorite meal. It was just a stitch; once we were out there we would swap around.
We still needed cam nets to conceal ourselves and our kit.
"I'll do it," Dinger volunteered.
He would cut rolls of hessian into six-by six-foot squares. Brand-new hessian needs to be messed up with engine oil. You put the hessian into a puddle of it and rub it in well with a broom. Then you turn it over and put it in the mud and rub it all in. Give it a good shake, let it dry, and Bob's your uncle-your very own cam net.
"Everything to be done by 1000 tomorrow," I concluded.
We would check and test, check and test. This wouldn't prevent things going wrong or not working, but it would at least cut down the odds.
It was about 2230, and Dinger announced that he had just run out of fags.
I got the hint. We'd covered everything and to carry on would just be reinventing the wheel. As the blokes left, they put every scrap of paper into a burn bag to be destroyed.
Vince and I stayed behind. We still had to go into the Phases (outline plan) with the squadron OC and sergeant major. They would hit us with a lot of questions of the "what if?" variety, and their different track of thinking might put a new angle on things. With luck, they might even approve the plan.
4
I couldn't sleep
When it was full, one of us would carry it a mile or so into the bush while on patrol, move a rock and dig a hole underneath it, empty the can, and replace the earth and rock. This would prevent detection by smell, animal interest, or insect activity.
I delegated various other tasks.
"Chris, you sort out the medic kit."
He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.
"Legs will sort out the scaley kit."
For some reason unknown to me, signalers are usually called scaleys. I knew that among other tasks Legs would make sure we had spare antennas for the patrol radio, so that if we were compromised when the antenna was out we could just leave it out and move. We would still be able to communicate using the spare antenna. He would also check that everything had a fresh battery, that we had spare batteries, and that everything was actually working.
"Vince and Bob, can you sort out the dems kit?"
They would take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish, "If the enemy see as much as a spent match on the ground in front of them, they'll know you were there," the instructor on my Combat Survival course had said. "And if they find it behind them they'll know it was Special Forces."
"Mark, you can sort out the food and jerricans."
The Kiwi would draw eight men's rations for fourteen days from Stores.
You strip it all down, and keep just one set of brew kit in your belt kit. I throw away the toilet paper because in the field I shit by squatting and therefore don't need it. But everybody keeps the plastic bags for shitting into. You simply tie a knot in them after use and put the contents into your bergen.
Everything must go with you, as nothing can be left to compromise your position, old or present. If you just buried shit it would create animal interest, and if discovered the ingredients could be analyzed.
Rice content, for example, would indicate Iraqis; currants or chili would point to Westerners.
There's always a lot of banter to swap menus. The unwritten rule is that whatever you don't want you throw into a bin liner for the other blokes to sort through. Stan didn't like Lancashire hot pot but loved steak and vegetables, so unbeknownst to him we swapped the contents. He would go over the border with fourteen days' worth of his least favorite meal. It was just a stitch; once we were out there we would swap around.
We still needed cam nets to conceal ourselves and our kit.
"I'll do it," Dinger volunteered.
He would cut rolls of hessian into six-by six-foot squares. Brand-new hessian needs to be messed up with engine oil. You put the hessian into a puddle of it and rub it in well with a broom. Then you turn it over and put it in the mud and rub it all in. Give it a good shake, let it dry, and Bob's your uncle-your very own cam net.
"Everything to be done by 1000 tomorrow," I concluded.
We would check and test, check and test. This wouldn't prevent things going wrong or not working, but it would at least cut down the odds.
It was about 2230, and Dinger announced that he had just run out of fags.
I got the hint. We'd covered everything and to carry on would just be reinventing the wheel. As the blokes left, they put every scrap of paper into a burn bag to be destroyed.
Vince and I stayed behind. We still had to go into the Phases (outline plan) with the squadron OC and sergeant major. They would hit us with a lot of questions of the "what if?" variety, and their different track of thinking might put a new angle on things. With luck, they might even approve the plan.
4
I couldn't sleep
Similar Books
