John Wiseman - Operation Lavivrus

They instinctively knew what the other was thinking; they had been working together for two years and a special bond had been forged between them. They understood each other’s moods and fancies, knowing when something wasn’t quite right. When troubled Pete tended to lapse into long periods of silence, mulling things over and keeping them to himself, whereas Tony did the opposite and liked talking about any problems as he attempted to work them out.

‘Well, they certainly have done their homework. I was expecting a bloody big box with switches on.’

‘Considering how little time they had, they’ve worked miracles. It’s a pity there are no practice devices. I don’t like the idea of training with the same ones we are going to use on ops.’

‘The man said they’re indestructible, but he doesn’t know the lads. We could lose them, especially when parachuting, and there are no replacements.’

‘I think we only use them on the target attack phase, and not the infiltration.’

They discussed the best way to train with them, considering the alternatives. Tony tried to keep Peter engaged in conversation as he didn’t drive so fast when he was talking. When they lapsed into silence Pete would speed up and the scenery would flash by. They turned off the motorway onto a narrow country lane, and Tony was thrown around too much for his liking.

‘Do you remember them knock-out drops in Borneo?’ he asked.

Peter didn’t answer straight away as he came up fast behind a pick-up truck. He didn’t check his speed but accelerated past just as they were entering a left-hand bend. Tony’s foot stamped on an imaginary brake pedal with both hands gripping the dash, his eyes out on stalks scanning ahead. His worse nightmare happened: a car appeared, closing the distance rapidly. There was nowhere to go, thick hedges on both sides laced with large tree. A crash looked inevitable.

With less than inches to spare, Pete passed the truck and pulled back in, ignoring the fist waving and flashing lights from both vehicles.

‘No. What drops?’ he asked coolly.

Tony couldn’t speak – in fact he couldn’t remember the question – and when no answer came, Pete enquired, ‘Hungry, mate? Let’s stop at the dog stall for a sarnie.’

Tony stared intently at Peter, nursing the circulation back into his hands. The last thing he wanted at that moment was something to eat. When the crash seemed inevitable all he wanted to do as his last gesture on earth was to punch the driver as hard as he could. He was still fighting for composure. All of his ailments and discomforts had temporarily left him, but now they returned with a vengeance. His ears and lips throbbed, and a bout of cramp gripped his left calf. He thought to himself, ‘Wait till I get out he vehicle . . .’ but he actually said, ‘There’d better be a toilet handy.’

After a short break and all essentials had been catered for, they arrived at Shrivenham and went through the same routine as before. Security was more obvious here, but the same monotonous procedures were followed.

Eventually they were guided to a large hangar, where they were greeted by a lively, fit-looking man wearing a Royal Signals cap badge.

‘Hi, chaps. I’m Captain Charles Minter. Come on in. Please call me Chas. Toilets to the right, and my office is the last on the left, at the far end.’

He shook their hands warmly, pointing down a long bare brick corridor painted in a sickly green with polished brown lino covering the floor. There were many doors on the left-hand side, but only one large double door on the right. They followed the captain down the corridor, declining the offer of the toilet. All the doors were identical, varnished in dark oak with a frosted glass panel at the top. He stopped and opened the last but one door. Balancing on one leg, he stuck his head around the jamb and ordered, ‘Tea for three, Mary, and could you possibly round up some biscuits?’ Some things never change; the army thrives on its tea, and rarely goes an hour without a brew.

They went next door into the captain’s office, which looked more like a museum than a place of work. It was well lit, with two large windows giving a view over open fields. Each had a pair of cheap printed curtains hanging forlornly from large brass hooks, many of which were missing. The floral design was faded, giving the curtains the look of badly stowed sails on a battered yacht. Above one window was a line of regimental plaques, adding a splash of colour. The other two walls were smothered in photos and maps. In places they overlapped, making it hard to see the lime-green emulsion underneath. The grey filing cabinets were smothered in stickers from all the three services. Different squadrons, ships and regiments were represented. One sticker in particular caught Tony’s eye: ‘Paratroopers never die, they just go to hell and regroup.’ Even the desk was covered in militaria, and a conducted tour was needed to explain the models, badges and assortment of ammunition that lay there. Under a layer of transparent plastic were more photographs, and heaped at the back a pile of bayonets and knives. Not even the telephone or the wastepaper basket had escaped from the stickers, and when the tea was brought in by a middle-aged lady, wearing a brown tweed skirt and blue woollen twinset, the cups bore RAF squadron logos.

‘Thank you, Mary. If you set it down over there.’ Chas dropped a pile of maps on the floor to make room for the laden tray on top of a bookcase crammed untidily with books and magazines.

Pete and Tony were looking around the office, thinking they had seen everything, then something else would catch their eye. Chas removed a climbing rope from one chair and a pile of pamphlets from another. He gave the inquisitive pair a few more minutes, then invited them to sit down.

‘I think we have a mutual friend: Jimmy Thompson,’ suggested Chas.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Jimmy’s running Ops Research. He was going to come with us but got called away last night. I’m Tony Watkins, and this is Peter Grey. We are both in 2 Troop and have just came from the Fort.’

They exchanged pleasantries over the tea, and Chas was only too pleased to explain a lot of the paraphernalia that littered his office.

‘This round here never went into production; it was too expensive. This blunt-nose shell came from Iran and can penetrate . . .’ He went on for a good twenty minutes, holding the pair’s undivided attention. Although they were fascinated, however, they were on a tight schedule, and Tony had to take an exaggerated look at his watch to break the spell and get Chas back to the reason for their visit.

Carefully resheathing a bayonet, he laid it back on his desk. ‘That’s enough of my toys. Let me fill you in on yours. I don’t know how much of the background you are aware of, so stop me if you’ve heard it already.’ He made himself more comfortable before continuing.

‘Your Director was asked by the War Office to come up with a plan to protect the Task Force from air attack. He requested our assistance four weeks ago, regarding the menace posed by Exocets. These have been responsible for sinking three of our ships already. Working closely with RARDE, where you have just come from, we had to come up with a solution for stopping these air attacks on our fleet. If we don’t succeed we won’t have a Task Force left. We cannot afford to lose any more ships; this would seriously endanger our invasion plans. Argentina have some very useful pilots and in the Super Etendards a first-class aircraft.’ He paused while he went to the bookcase and selected a large book before settling back in his seat.

‘It’s not just a matter of you chaps going in and blowing the aircraft up. It’s got to be more subtle than that.’ He looked at the pair intently. ‘Because of the fragile coalition with neighbouring countries any assault on the mainland would be taken as an escalation of the war, and we would lose their support. So we have come up with “Operation Lavivrus”.’