plate of beans, one of the doughy, locally baked bread rolls and a can of Carling.
The food looked none too appetising in the tent's greenish light, but at that moment Alex could have eaten practically anything.
"Cheers, lads," he said, thumbing back the tab.
"Here's to a daring rescue!"
"Who was responsible for that, then?" asked Lance Wilford.
"The Paras," said Alex.
"Ah." Dog Kenilworth smiled.
"Fine body of men."
There was silence for a moment.
"Any news on Ricky Sutton?" asked one of the troopers from Zulu Three One patrol, who had been tasked to recce the Arsenal camp.
"Should be OK, is my guess, barring a very sore arse," said Alex.
"And Steve Dowson?" Dowson was the "D' Squadron corporal who had been hit while attempting to rescue Hammond.
"Shoulder's a mess but he'll live."
There were relieved nods, followed by another protracted silence, then Stan Clayton raised a fridge frosted beer can.
"To Don Hammond," he said loudly.
"Bloody good soldier, bloody good mate."
The others raised their own drinks and then everyone started talking at once and the mood lifted.
There was no shortage of good Don Hammond stories and it had been one hell of a successful mission.
As Alex drank and listened in silence, the elation of the successful mission faded, to be replaced by the sombre reality of his friend's death. After the third can his mood had not improved and, unwilling to spoil the others' celebrations, he slipped from the mess tent, collaring a bottle of rum as he went.
In his own tent he raised the mosquito net overhanging his camp bed, sat down and took a deep hit of rum straight from the bottle. He would say goodbye to Don alone and in his own way.
He was about to neck a second swallow when a trooper ducked through the tent flap.
"Sorry, but the Boss wants you.
Again? thought Alex, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. Bollocks. Glancing regretfully at the ruin bottle, he followed the trooper from the tent.
In the hour since their last conversation, David Ross had clearly suffered a change of mood. Irritation now etched the spare features.
"You're going home," he told Alex abruptly.
"Don't ask me why because I don't know. All I've been told is that you're wanted in London as soon as you can get there."
Alex stared at him, mystified. What the fuck was going down? Whatever, he'd had enough of this sweaty shithole.
"Can I take a couple of the lads back with me? We can jump a Hercules."
"No on both counts," said Ross testily.
"They want you quicker than that. You're being choppered to Banjul and boarded on to aBA civilian flight to Heathrow. For that reason you're taking civilian clothes and cabin luggage only."
"I didn't bring any..." Alex began.
"One of the liaison blokes is picking some stuff up now. Should be back any minute."
"Is this to do with last night's operation?" Alex ventured.
"Not unless there's some element to the whole thing that I haven't been told about."
That such a possibility even existed, Alex saw, clearly rankled bitterly with the CO.
"I'll get packing," he said.
Ross nodded.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a flowered bush shirt, over-tight slacks and plastic sandals from Freetown market all that the liaison guy had been able to rustle up at ten minutes' notice Alex was watching from the passenger seat of a Lynx helicopter as Kroo Bay and the curving northern sweep of Freetown fell away beneath him. The rain of the early morning had given way to sunshine and now the whole country seemed to be steaming in the heat.
Beside him, the khaki T-shirt of the special forces pilot was dark with sweat beneath the arms and where it was in contact with the plastic seat cover.
"Another hot one," said the pilot laconically over the intercom.
"Looks like it," Alex replied, settling himself back into his seat. They had the best part of two hours' flying time ahead of them. In twenty minutes they would be in Guinea airspace and in half an hour would be overflying the capital,
The food looked none too appetising in the tent's greenish light, but at that moment Alex could have eaten practically anything.
"Cheers, lads," he said, thumbing back the tab.
"Here's to a daring rescue!"
"Who was responsible for that, then?" asked Lance Wilford.
"The Paras," said Alex.
"Ah." Dog Kenilworth smiled.
"Fine body of men."
There was silence for a moment.
"Any news on Ricky Sutton?" asked one of the troopers from Zulu Three One patrol, who had been tasked to recce the Arsenal camp.
"Should be OK, is my guess, barring a very sore arse," said Alex.
"And Steve Dowson?" Dowson was the "D' Squadron corporal who had been hit while attempting to rescue Hammond.
"Shoulder's a mess but he'll live."
There were relieved nods, followed by another protracted silence, then Stan Clayton raised a fridge frosted beer can.
"To Don Hammond," he said loudly.
"Bloody good soldier, bloody good mate."
The others raised their own drinks and then everyone started talking at once and the mood lifted.
There was no shortage of good Don Hammond stories and it had been one hell of a successful mission.
As Alex drank and listened in silence, the elation of the successful mission faded, to be replaced by the sombre reality of his friend's death. After the third can his mood had not improved and, unwilling to spoil the others' celebrations, he slipped from the mess tent, collaring a bottle of rum as he went.
In his own tent he raised the mosquito net overhanging his camp bed, sat down and took a deep hit of rum straight from the bottle. He would say goodbye to Don alone and in his own way.
He was about to neck a second swallow when a trooper ducked through the tent flap.
"Sorry, but the Boss wants you.
Again? thought Alex, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. Bollocks. Glancing regretfully at the ruin bottle, he followed the trooper from the tent.
In the hour since their last conversation, David Ross had clearly suffered a change of mood. Irritation now etched the spare features.
"You're going home," he told Alex abruptly.
"Don't ask me why because I don't know. All I've been told is that you're wanted in London as soon as you can get there."
Alex stared at him, mystified. What the fuck was going down? Whatever, he'd had enough of this sweaty shithole.
"Can I take a couple of the lads back with me? We can jump a Hercules."
"No on both counts," said Ross testily.
"They want you quicker than that. You're being choppered to Banjul and boarded on to aBA civilian flight to Heathrow. For that reason you're taking civilian clothes and cabin luggage only."
"I didn't bring any..." Alex began.
"One of the liaison blokes is picking some stuff up now. Should be back any minute."
"Is this to do with last night's operation?" Alex ventured.
"Not unless there's some element to the whole thing that I haven't been told about."
That such a possibility even existed, Alex saw, clearly rankled bitterly with the CO.
"I'll get packing," he said.
Ross nodded.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a flowered bush shirt, over-tight slacks and plastic sandals from Freetown market all that the liaison guy had been able to rustle up at ten minutes' notice Alex was watching from the passenger seat of a Lynx helicopter as Kroo Bay and the curving northern sweep of Freetown fell away beneath him. The rain of the early morning had given way to sunshine and now the whole country seemed to be steaming in the heat.
Beside him, the khaki T-shirt of the special forces pilot was dark with sweat beneath the arms and where it was in contact with the plastic seat cover.
"Another hot one," said the pilot laconically over the intercom.
"Looks like it," Alex replied, settling himself back into his seat. They had the best part of two hours' flying time ahead of them. In twenty minutes they would be in Guinea airspace and in half an hour would be overflying the capital,
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