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Authors: John Macrae
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tell me?"
"Last month. You were away on leave and anyway, it wouldn't have done you any good to be told. He'd gone out to relieve James Davidson as our Liaison Officer in the Gulf. Things are coming to the boil out there. Apparently it happened at dead of night. Dead straight road. Driving to the airport. The tanker just went straight over the Rover. Killed them both. All very odd. "
I was staggered; Alex, and James as well. Two of our best men, gone. For what? "It can't have been an accident, Tony. Can it?"
Tony remained impassive. "The police record says it was. It was a big 36 tonner. Water tanker. Mercedes artic, driven by a Baluch. He'd no form and reported it himself. The poor little sod was wetting himself by the time the UAE Security Police had finished with him. No, officially its kosher: an accident." He looked at me closely. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, sure. " But I wasn't. Captain Alex Jackson, Special Boat Section, Royal Marines, was the nearest thing to a friend -- someone you can go to if you've got trouble -- that I had: had had, I thought. Now he was gone. I'd been going to tell him all about the shitty little psychiatrist and the hospital and the dreams. It would have been a laugh. I'd never again have the chance to sit quietly bullshitting and swapping stories in the corner of the pub with square faced Alex with the broken nose, who talked out of the side of his mouth in that slightly high pitched voice. Five foot six, and very sensitive about his height. And his silly ginger hair. Alex. Now I never would. And lanky, languid ex-Etonian James Davidson was one of our best Arabists, trusted by every pro-Western Government and police force in Saudi, Kuwait and the Gulf States. It was hard to take in.
"The funeral?"
"Over: gone. Beginning of the month. In their local church. You were convalescing; it was the Director's decision not to tell you. Rosemary wanted it quiet. No regiment, no uniforms; just local. She wasn't very happy. Blames us. Not fair really. Probably easier to pass off all her feelings on to us. "
"Should I go and see her?"
"Your call: I'd recommend telephoning first. She's not a happy lady."
I sat in silence, staring out of the window. I'd really wanted to talk to Alex. He was the only guy I'd ever really been able to talk to about the serious things. Like how scared I was at parachuting - every time. And I knew that deep diving scared Alex shitless; which you don't admit to all your mates, particularly if you're a hot-shot captain in the SBS, with a pretty wife and two nice little daughters. Plum; one of them was called Plum: Victoria really. The little one was Lucy. What a … Shit. I realised I'd better call Rosemary, though she'd never been a great fan of the Regiment or Alex's friends. "Jesus. Jesus. "
Tony eyed me again. "Anyway, we've got other things to talk about. You're due to go and see the Director at 1100. We'd better have a little chat first. "
"Chat? Why?" I was wary. Tony was trying to tell me something. "What's to chat about? What's going on?"
Tony was bland, reassuring. "Oh, lot's of things. What's going to happen to you for a start."
"And what is going to happen to me? I'd assumed I was going back in there. " I gestured with my thumb back at the Special Operations Group Office. "You can't really want that Rupert on the team. He looks like a Tory MP."
Tony pulled down the corners of his mouth in a wry grin. "Actually, his father is one." he said, surprising me. "Henry's did good work in the Iraqi thing . He's good. He got an MBE..."
"Henry? Henry! Who the bloody hell is Henry ? If that's what gets through selection these days, then Training Wing's up the spout. OK, so he got a medal in Basra or somewhere. We've all got bloody medals. But it's hardly Afghanistan is it? Or a Queen's Gallantry Medal? And a bloody medal
"Last month. You were away on leave and anyway, it wouldn't have done you any good to be told. He'd gone out to relieve James Davidson as our Liaison Officer in the Gulf. Things are coming to the boil out there. Apparently it happened at dead of night. Dead straight road. Driving to the airport. The tanker just went straight over the Rover. Killed them both. All very odd. "
I was staggered; Alex, and James as well. Two of our best men, gone. For what? "It can't have been an accident, Tony. Can it?"
Tony remained impassive. "The police record says it was. It was a big 36 tonner. Water tanker. Mercedes artic, driven by a Baluch. He'd no form and reported it himself. The poor little sod was wetting himself by the time the UAE Security Police had finished with him. No, officially its kosher: an accident." He looked at me closely. "Are you all right?"
"Sure, sure. " But I wasn't. Captain Alex Jackson, Special Boat Section, Royal Marines, was the nearest thing to a friend -- someone you can go to if you've got trouble -- that I had: had had, I thought. Now he was gone. I'd been going to tell him all about the shitty little psychiatrist and the hospital and the dreams. It would have been a laugh. I'd never again have the chance to sit quietly bullshitting and swapping stories in the corner of the pub with square faced Alex with the broken nose, who talked out of the side of his mouth in that slightly high pitched voice. Five foot six, and very sensitive about his height. And his silly ginger hair. Alex. Now I never would. And lanky, languid ex-Etonian James Davidson was one of our best Arabists, trusted by every pro-Western Government and police force in Saudi, Kuwait and the Gulf States. It was hard to take in.
"The funeral?"
"Over: gone. Beginning of the month. In their local church. You were convalescing; it was the Director's decision not to tell you. Rosemary wanted it quiet. No regiment, no uniforms; just local. She wasn't very happy. Blames us. Not fair really. Probably easier to pass off all her feelings on to us. "
"Should I go and see her?"
"Your call: I'd recommend telephoning first. She's not a happy lady."
I sat in silence, staring out of the window. I'd really wanted to talk to Alex. He was the only guy I'd ever really been able to talk to about the serious things. Like how scared I was at parachuting - every time. And I knew that deep diving scared Alex shitless; which you don't admit to all your mates, particularly if you're a hot-shot captain in the SBS, with a pretty wife and two nice little daughters. Plum; one of them was called Plum: Victoria really. The little one was Lucy. What a … Shit. I realised I'd better call Rosemary, though she'd never been a great fan of the Regiment or Alex's friends. "Jesus. Jesus. "
Tony eyed me again. "Anyway, we've got other things to talk about. You're due to go and see the Director at 1100. We'd better have a little chat first. "
"Chat? Why?" I was wary. Tony was trying to tell me something. "What's to chat about? What's going on?"
Tony was bland, reassuring. "Oh, lot's of things. What's going to happen to you for a start."
"And what is going to happen to me? I'd assumed I was going back in there. " I gestured with my thumb back at the Special Operations Group Office. "You can't really want that Rupert on the team. He looks like a Tory MP."
Tony pulled down the corners of his mouth in a wry grin. "Actually, his father is one." he said, surprising me. "Henry's did good work in the Iraqi thing . He's good. He got an MBE..."
"Henry? Henry! Who the bloody hell is Henry ? If that's what gets through selection these days, then Training Wing's up the spout. OK, so he got a medal in Basra or somewhere. We've all got bloody medals. But it's hardly Afghanistan is it? Or a Queen's Gallantry Medal? And a bloody medal
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