John Wiseman - Operation Lavivrus

‘You must be mad, Andy. Look at the state of your feet.’ Jane Swingler was sitting on the toilet seat, fiddling with a bottle of shampoo. ‘Why don’t you become a postman or something like that?’ she went on in an agitated voice. ‘I wouldn’t mind what you did. Anything would be better than this.’

‘Don’t start, Jane. I’m knackered. We did 35 clicks today, mostly running.’ Andy’s head was the only thing visible above the steaming, soapy water. ‘Postmen get bitten by dogs, anyway.’

Jane’s high voice reverberated in the confines of the small bathroom, emphasising her distress. ‘You should try looking after the twins for a day and you will soon know what it’s like to be really tired. You don’t have to run over mountains or chuck yourself out of stupid aircraft.’ When Andy failed to respond she carried on, ‘The doctor came again this morning. He’s worried about Maureen.’ Maureen was their eldest, just turned eleven, and asthmatic.

‘Look, love, I know you’ve had it hard lately, but let me do this one last thing, and I’ll consider coming out. I’ll be a postmistress if you want, but don’t let’s argue. I’ll be away soon.’

Jane knelt by the side of the bath and gently towelled his head. ‘Andy Swingler, you’ve been saying that for the last twelve years. Stand up and let’s have a look at you.’ She towelled him down, spending longer than necessary around his groin. ‘What time do you have to parade in the morning?’

‘Cushy day tomorrow. Not till eight,’ he replied.

‘I must be mad,’ she said, before leading him by the hand to the bedroom.

The Colonel sat behind a substantial oak desk, scarred with age and engrained with decades of polish-laden grime. It faced a large window that looked out across the drill square. Apart from a few chairs it was the only piece of furniture in the room. The walls were padded with polystyrene insulation, covered with a light blue plastic sheet stapled at intervals, resembling an over-stuffed sofa. White acoustic tiles covered the ceiling, and a hard-wearing coir carpet covered the floor. Two large fluorescent lights did a good job of lighting the room, but one emitted a low hum. A single door was the only access, and this was heavily padded also. This room was aptly named by the lads the ‘padded cell’.

Clinically neat, the desktop displayed only three trays, a telephone and a neat line of pens by the side of a large memo pad. The trays were equally spaced and filled with neatly stacked correspondence, the in tray winning the altitude stakes. A basket tucked away in the corner behind the desk was the home of a black Labrador who lay comatose, taking no notice of the person who had just been given permission to enter.

The coir carpet was beginning to wrinkle by the door, causing Peter trouble as he strove to close it. This only added to the nervousness he always felt when he went before the CO. The Colonel was a large, dominant man, greying at the temples and, like his desk, old and scarred. He had a deep, sonorous voice, a broken Roman nose and hypnotic eyes that transfixed all who came before him.

‘How’s the training going, Peter?’

‘Very well, sir, but I need a replacement.’

The Colonel scrutinised Peter before saying, ‘I heard there was nonsense on the DZ. What happened?’ As an afterthought said he added, ‘Sit down.’

‘Trooper Chandler had a malfunction and scared himself to death. He’s requested a troop transfer, and I endorse this. He’s a good man but not cut out for free fall.’ Peter sat stiffly upright on the wooden chair.

‘It’s the wrong time to suddenly decide you don’t like bloody free falling,’ the CO responded, his raised voice sounded strangely flat in the acoustically suppressed office. ‘He can’t pick and bloody well choose. He did the long course in Cyprus last year, as well as Fort Bragg. How many jumps has he done?’

‘He was taken off the American trip, Colonel, because his mother died. I guess he’s done at least forty jumps, though.’

‘Forty jumps and still not sure.’ There was a long pause as the Colonel deliberated, absent-mindedly rearranging his pens. Suddenly, with a display of frustrated vigour, he slapped his palms down on the desktop, and using his most intimidating expression demanded, ‘Who have you in mind to replace him?’ The dog lifted its head at this outburst, then, overcome by the effort, flopped back in his basket.

Each troop, when up to full strength, consisted of sixteen men, giving four four-man patrols. Half of 2 Troop were already deployed down in Georgia under the command of Troop Sergeant Hannigan. Peter was deliberately kept back to run this operation with his staff sergeant to assist him.

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