Ian Slater - World in Flames

In the pitch blackness of that morning, it was minus five degrees when each of the ninety-eight men began his private trial, heading across rain-swollen creeks and sodden, slippery slopes up toward the Beacons. For the first two hours, many of the men made good time, but by 0900 hours, the crest of the Beacons buffeted by sixty-kilometer-per-hour winds and aswirl in a snowstorm, several men were wandering blind. By noon only seventeen had made it to Merthyr Tydfil: most of these, troopers from the Coldstream Guards regiment. Twenty-odd more, a number of them close to hypothermia despite the storm units, straggled in around 1300 hours, all totally exhausted and near frozen because they had not packed the storm suit properly in the rucksack, preventing zippers from being fully closed, allowing the rucksacks to become sodden, the damp transmitted to the storm suits.

Small details, but SAS Captain Cheek-Dawson knew they could be deadly mistakes on an “op,” and none of them escaped Cheek-Dawson’s eye or that of the RSM.

David Brentwood staggered in at 1340, only twenty minutes to spare. Lewis fifteen minutes behind him, and Thelman barely making it, falling against the chapel door, followed in by an angry flurry of snow. Cheek-Dawson was looking disgustingly dapper in full battle dress, patiently waiting. As Lewis flopped to the floor, it was several minutes before he could speak. He nudged David. “When did Lord Cheek get here?”

“Ten forty-five,” said one of the engineers. “He and one of the Scots Guards.”

“Bullshit!” said Lewis. “Must have got a ride.”

The engineer shook his head. “No, he was dropped off from the truck just before me. Bugger kept me going — yelling at me, ‘Come on, Swain. Put your back into it — come on, Swain. No loafing,’ Real pain in the bum, I can tell you.”

“That your name?” asked Lewis, barely able to prop himself up on his elbows. “Swain?”

“Yeah, mate. Why?”

“How the hell can they remember all our names?”

“ ‘Cause they bloody like us,” said Swain.

“They do their homework,” said another man. eyes shut, stretched out on the cold, dusty floor of the long-disused chapel. “Know us all better’n our muvvers, they do.”

“I’m starving,” said Lewis. “Opened me bloody pack and you know what I found?”

“Bricks!” said Brentwood.

“Yeah,” said Lewis. “Fuckin’ bricks — and they number the bastards.”

“That’s—” Thelman began, but had to stop for lack of wind. He looked close to total collapse, his bloodshot eyes in stark contrast to his black skin. He accepted the water bottle offered him by the RSM and continued his explanation. “They number the bricks, a guy told me, ‘cause they have to account for them.”

“That’s right,” said a cockney accent, the man wearing a Coldstream Guards patch, which surprised Thelman. He’d always thought, from their pictures, that the tall, bearskin-hatted Guardsmen would speak in an upper-class accent. “See,” continued the Guardsman, “Ministry of Supply’s very touchy about losing bricks.”

There was a ripple of tired laughter.

“Sar’Major?” asked Cheek-Dawson, hands akimbo on his battle dress smock. “How many still out?”

“Six, sir.”

“Very good. Call the Back Markers on the blower and let them go in and round them up. They don’t find them by fifteen hundred hours, better call Brecon police station, army, and air force mountain rescue.”

“Yes, sir.”

Professional pride counseled against calling in army or RAF mountain search to help the Back Markers, but Cheek-Dawson was obliged to do so, two men having died from exposure several months before.

The six men who were still out, it was understood by all, would be returning to their regiments, as would anyone else who wandered into the disused chapel after 1400 hours.

When the final tally was in, forty-three out of the ninety-eight volunteers had already failed phase one and would be returning to their units.

“Not bad, Sar’Major,” said Cheek-Dawson cheerily, his bonhomie somehow making the musty-smelling chapel even more depressing and cold.

“Just over half made it,” said the sar’major.

“Quite.”

“Jesus!” Lewis told Thelman, who had made the silly mistake of taking his boots off. “At this rate we’ll all be dead by sunset.”

David agreed. He was astonished — that was the only word for it — at the sudden change of weather and drop in temperature on the Brecon Beacons and at the equally sudden hatred he now held for any lyrical notion he’d had about Wales. Wales was where you died, and you’d volunteered for it. Everyone, he noticed, was complaining bitterly of hunger.

“Righto, chaps,” said Cheek-Dawson. “You’ve not done too badly, given the rapid change in weather conditions. Now, all hand in your maps and then we’ll have a spot of lunch.”

“That’s bloody more like it,” said Lewis. “I’m for that.”

“Good man, Lewis. We like initiative. First in line then. Map?”

Lewis unzipped the chest pocket that served as an extra thermal layer, extracted the folded map, and handed it to Cheek-Dawson. The RSM had poured two cups of steaming hot coffee.

“Oh dear—” said Cheek-Dawson. “Oh dear.”

“What?” said Lewis, alarmed, turning back from watching the coffee, face tight with hunger and fatigue.

“No lolly for you, old chap!” He meant no candy — no prize.

“What you bloody mean?”

“Look!”

Lewis did look, at the map, now unfolded and spread out on the table. Suddenly he remembered the warning about not marking it up with starting coordinates, et cetera, lest the enemy, as Cheek-Dawson had cautioned, could backtrack on it. He peered closely at the map. “Hang on. Here — let me have a gander.” With this, Lewis bend down, looking closer at the map. At that moment another man, one of the missing, collapsed in the doorway. Two men lumbered to their feet, went over, and dragged him in.

Lewis was still staring at the map. “There’s no bloody writing on it. Look, not even a pencil impression.” He held the map up like holding a sheet to dry. “ ‘Ave a look.”

Cheek-Dawson turned him about to face the class, prostrate before him. “Anyone see it?”

Everybody gazed up at the map, some of them looking like stunned cows, still not recovered. There was no writing on it, just as Lewis had said.

David Brentwood reluctantly put up his hand. Poor old Lewis looked as if he’d collapse if they didn’t give him something to eat soon. “Folds,” said David. “You can see the square where the map’s been folded and pressed down.”

“Top of the class, Brentwood. Folded square!” said Cheek-Dawson, taking the map from an incredulous Lewis. “Enemy interrogator sees that he’d know precisely the grid you started from. Reduce his search pattern by a factor of ten at least. And you and your group would’ve had it.”

Brentwood pulled out his map. “I did the same thing,” he said, looking up at Cheek-Dawson.

The officer smiled. “So did I — first time out. Don’t do it again. Keep folding it different ways — confuses the dickens out of them— if you’re caught!”

“Can we eat now?” said Lewis unrepentantly.

“Of course,” said Cheek-Dawson. “Then after lunch you lot take a stroll down to Avergavenny. We’ll pick you up there with the lorries and take you back to Senny Bridge. Everyone clear on that?”

“Why can’t we go back now?” asked a Coldstream Guard.

“Yeah,” added Lewis.

“Lorries are tied up, I’m afraid,” answered Cheek-Dawson. Besides, a stroll after lunch’ll do you good. Otherwise you’ll get sleepy.”