Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Sir?” The walrus was by his side.

“Telefon!”

Next minute the waiter was frantically unraveling a phone cord like a man readying to abandon ship. Nefski pushed the phone toward Marchenko. “Call your base commander. Tell him I want to talk to him.” Nefski was still chewing, staring at Marchenko, daring him.

Marchenko dialed, and when the base commander came on, his tone was terse, clipped, authoritarian, asking Marchenko what he wanted. Nefski grabbed the receiver, identifying himself brusquely to the commander, then held the receiver far enough away so that Marchenko could hear as well. The change in the commander’s tone upon hearing Nefski had been instantaneous. Marchenko was disgusted. The man was senior fighter commander TVD, yet his tone was cloyingly subservient. Nefski smiled and spoke brusquely to the commander, “I want you in my office within half an hour.”

“Yes, Colonel,” came the response. “Of course, I’ll—”

Nefski put down the receiver and stared at Marchenko. “And I want that slut talking in forty-eight hours.” With that, he left.

Marchenko sat, the vodka cupped in his hands, his eyes fixed on the little oily sea inside the glass, and waited for what he thought was Nefski’s final insult: leaving him to pay the bill. When it didn’t come, he called over the waiter to hurry it up, but the walrus informed him, “Monsieur, there is no bill for Colonel Nefski’s guests.”

“Oh,” Marchenko said, feeling momentarily like a naive schoolboy, and grabbing his cap and coat, made his way out into the blinding snow. He hailed a troika — more of them about now that gas rationing was even more severe than normal. With the harness bells jingling, the outer two horses’ nostrils flaring, the steam of their breath almost instantly frozen to icicles, Marchenko sat back into the troika’s deep embrace, pulling down his cap, and the collar of his greatcoat and the rough serge blankets up about his ears. As the shushing of the snow, like the threshing of wheat, cut through the silence of the dark streets, the old, grizzled driver, his beard a clump of watery ice, snapped the whip, driving Marchenko fast toward the Jewish sector.

“Thank you all for coming,” said SAS Major Rye, his voice surprisingly soft, so much so that Brentwood, in the third row of the platoon, could barely hear him. “As usual, we like to bring you in on a Monday,” Rye continued, “so those who won’t be staying with us can rejoin their units next weekend.”

The Aussie put up his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Lewis?” asked Rye quietly.

The Australian was as surprised as everybody else that the major knew his name straight off. And Mr. Lewis! “Stone the crows.” said Lewis. “You blokes don’t waste any time.”

“What’s your question, Mr. Lewis?” asked Rye politely.

“You mean the course is only a week long?” asked the Aussie.

“No,” replied Rye, again not as if he were answering an NCO or “other rank” but speaking to Lewis more as an equal, a member of the same sports team. There were obviously no “Lords” and “Others” entrances to SAS cricket grounds.

“The course,” explained Rye, “normally takes several months. Naturally we’ve had to streamline this to a matter of weeks because of the difficulties over the water, but most of you have already gone through some sort of specialist training — in part. I do emphasize in part, however. As a prerequisite for volunteering for SAS tryout, you must have all seen action and be considered mature. We are not looking for, nor do we want, young men who either have not been under fire or who have what we deem to be romantic notions of combat. In all, our screening process allows us to reduce the course to five weeks, including a ‘sort out’ first week.” He paused for more questions.

“Sir,” Thelman asked, “are we being trained for any specific missions?”

“Yes and no.”

“That’s bloody helpful,” said Lewis. The major had no difficulty hearing, even if he spoke softly.

“It means, Lewis, that if you and your colleagues succeed, you will form a pool — or I should say add to a pool, albeit a relatively small one — from which we can draw from time to time should we receive specific requests. But as it is a small pool, and only those of you who pass tryout will learn the organizational structure necessitated by our limited number, we are rather particular about what requests we respond to. In short, if we think they can be handled by line regiments, we say so. Our intention here, quite frankly, is to be the unit of last resort. We do what others say can’t be done or is overfraught with risk. We do not counsel immodesty, gentlemen, but I think it fair to say SAS has a long, and I believe distinguished, tradition. You’ll hear more of that as you proceed— If you proceed.” The major paused to make sure everyone was giving his full attention.

Lewis didn’t understand some of the words the major was using, but most Poms, he concluded, were like that — all sounded like they’d swallowed a bloody dictionary. Anyway, Lewis got the general drift.

“One of the things we’ll be looking for in the first week,” continued Major Rye, “is what we call ‘crossover ability,’ Our basic unit is a four-man one in which each man is a generalist but also a specialist in a particular field so that should you be on a sticky ‘op,’ you will have the ability to step into one another’s shoes as it were. And quickly. First week, however, will be devoted to weeding out those of you who are not up to it. You will discover this yourselves. I want it clearly understood that there is absolutely no stigma for failing SAS’s first phase. You’ve been chosen because you’re the best in your own regiments, but we do aspire to the very best, and physical fitness forms the basis, though by no means all, of the criteria.”

Rye paused, his gaze casual yet at the same time searching. “One more thing, chaps. If and when you return to your units — after this week or later after you’ve served with us and can no longer ‘cut the mustard,’ as our American cousins would say — we do expect absolute secrecy about SAS methods and organization. If you do not keep it to yourself, we will kill you. Sar’Major?”

“Sir!” responded the RSM, saluting briskly and turning the platoon. “Platoon — dismissed!”

“Charming!” said Lewis, while making up his bunk, David Brentwood and Thelman taking the second and third tier respectively. “Bloody charming. Well, I’ll give the old bastard one thing — he gives it to you straight.” The Aussie drew over the blue military blanket, tucking it tightly beneath the mattress. “Still, can’t be too bad. I’ve done Canungra.”

“What’s that?” asked Thelman, folding his kit bag. “Aussie dope?”

“Oh, spare me,” said Lewis, pulling out his khaki T-shirt and socks from the chocolate-colored bag. “Canungra. In Aussie. Jungle warfare school. Don’t you blokes know anything? It’s a real bastard there, I’m tellin’ ya.” Lewis dropped his blanket. “Snakes this fuckin’ long and this small. One bite and you’re a goner—’less you got the old razor and Condies crystals into the wound.”

“Don’t see any snakes around here,” said David.

“Eh, don’t come the raw prawn with me, mate. You know what I mean. These bloody hills are nothin’ compared to jungle. Got nothin’ but a few bloody sheep on ‘em. Could run over ‘em.”

Which is precisely what Lewis and the other ninety-seven volunteers did the next morning — without breakfast. At 5:00 a.m. Loaded up in the freezing darkness aboard the three-ton lorries, the trucks dropping them off at quarter-mile intervals between Senny Bridge and Brecon on a twelve-mile front, each man having been issued a waterproof storm suit, regulation SAS Bergen rucksack loaded with twenty-five pounds of bricks, a ten-pound rifle, a map of Brecon Beacons national park, compass, and, yelled out to him by the RSM, a six-digit number for the latitude and longitude. Instructions: to reach an abandoned chapel at Merthyr Tydfil — fifteen miles from the Beacons as the crow flew but much longer up the Beacons’ north face and down the southern side. The only other order given them before they left was not to make notations anywhere on the map — an enemy could use the pencil marks to back-plot. They were to reach Merthyr Tydfil by 1400 hours. Any later and they were out.