Operation Lavivrus. John Wiseman
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to free the rigging lines. Just as he was about to congratulate himself he saw the dark, menacing shape of pine trees coming up fast to meet him.
He crashed through the wooden canopy. The springy boughs slowed his fall, depositing him on mother earth with surprising gentleness, as if seeking forgiveness for the terror she had put him through. Lying there with the red handle welded to his sweaty palm, Ron looked skyward and offered his thanks.
Tony, with Fred a few yards behind, followed the edge of the wood, stopping often to listen, while Fred scanned the landscape with his night sight. At the apex of the wood where it joined a young plantation, Fred grabbed Tony’s arm and offered him the night sight, pointing ahead. Adjusting the scope slightly, Tony could make out the billowing canopy entangled high among the branches of a tall pine. Following the rigging lines down, he spotted a figure sprawled at the base of the tree.
Covering the short distance in record time, Tony prepared himself for the worst. He gently lifted the man’s head and recognised Ron in the slim beam of his wildly shaking pencil torch. Tony whispered his name. A large grin appeared on the face of the trooper, followed by a wink. Confused for a second, and still gently cradling the head, Tony was amazed when the corpse said, ‘Am I late, boss?’
At this, Tony lost control. ‘You f—ing great dozy bastard. What the f—ing hell do you think you’re doing?’ He ranted and raged, threatening to tear Ron a new rectum. Fred tried calming him down, but Tony had to run out of expletives first and get rid of all his pent-up emotion. The gentle cradling had turned into a neck choke as Tony tried to erase the stupid grin from Ron’s face.
Ron was happy with all the attention he was getting, offering no resistance to Tony’s onslaught. Nothing could be worse than what he had just experienced; he was simply glad to be alive. Finally Tony calmed down and released him.
‘Can I say something, Tony?’ Ron asked nervously. Tony nodded, breathing deeply to bring himself under control. ‘Can I have a troop transfer?’
Fred stepped in to avert another outburst but was surprised when Tony put a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder and said, ‘We’ll talk about it back in camp.’
In a clump of stunted mountain ash, Tony reported in to Flight Lt Mace, the DZ safety officer. He told him of the location of Trooper Ron Chandler and left him and the doctor to help recover his kit.
Tony and Fred rejoined the patrol at the RV, where they sat in all-round defence, eager for news. With all pretence of a tactical insertion gone, Tony brought the patrol up to date, telling them of Ron’s escapade.
He had chosen a long route over the Beacons as a test of stamina. Initially the route was due south to the Cray reservoir over fairly flat ground, before turning east to climb over two valleys to the Storey Arms road. From here there was a hard climb over Pen y Fan, the highest point in the Beacons, along the ridge past Cribyn, then over Fan y Big before dropping steeply to the Neuadd reservoir, where hopefully the transport would be waiting. Altogether the march was 35 kilometres long, over rugged hills.
‘Right lads, saddle up. It will be first light soon and I want to be on the high ground,’ ordered Tony.
Putting down his night goggles, Captain Kennedy, 3 Troop Commander, turned to his sergeant and said, ‘They must be on the ground now. Remind the boys it’s a case of beer for every birdman captured.’ He had taken up position in the night but had to stay outside a 5 km circle from the DZ for safety reasons. They had heard the aircraft but had seen nothing. His troop was eager to go; it was no fun lying on damp ground. He deployed most of his men to the north, thinking that was the route 2 Troop would take as a deception plan, before heading south. Once it was light it was a foot race to the Neuadd reservoir, so he got his men up and started the sweep southwards, hoping to intercept his rivals.
The lingering smell of peat gave way to the fragrance of pine as the patrol entered a forest block where the going was firmer underfoot. Conditions changed from ankle-twisting tufted grass surrounded by water-soaked peat that sucked the boots down, reluctant to release them. Walking on the carpet of pine needles was like walking across a Persian rug, allowing Tony to set a cracking pace. Light started filtering through the trees, so they stayed in the shadows and used the fire breaks that ran in their direction.
Features could be seen as the light improved, and objects took on more definition. As Tony’s troop emerged from the forestry block, they saw movement to their left.
‘Look over there,’ pointed Phil. ‘It’s 3 Troop.’
The race was on. Tony put Andy as lead scout, telling him to open his legs and go for it.
‘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.’