World in Flames

“I know what SAS stands for,” said Lewis. “Special Army Sadists.”

“You told us that before,” said David.

The Australian stood up. “Sir?”

“Yes, Lewis.”

“Lot shorter back over the hill.”

“The Beacons?” a cockney voice shouted. “You’re off your Uncle Ned.”

Cheek-Dawson’s expression was fixed on Lewis. Finally he nodded, then shifted his gaze to the rest of the volunteers. “The member from down under has a point, gentlemen. Tougher going — but half the distance. That right, Sar’Major?”

“Easily, sir.”

“Very well,” announced Cheek-Dawson enthusiastically. “It’s back over the hill, then.”

“Very nice, Aussie,” said the trooper next to him. “Well done. Bucking for sergeant?”

But Cheek-Dawson noted the trooper’s mock derision of Lewis was only that, mock — nothing mean about it. And if it’s one thing the SAS, rated higher by NATO than the U.S. Seals or even the Israeli commandos, had learned during its long and distinguished commando years, it was that, contrary to the public’s Dirty Dozen view of such groups, a convivial sense of humor was essential.

As the men rose, checking their “Bergens,” as they’d already begun calling their SAS rucksacks, Lewis, tightening his straps, suddenly experienced a surge of intuition about where they were going. The rats were the clue, he told Brentwood. “The tropics!”

“You daft?” asked a Tommy. “Why ‘ave they got us in bloody Wales then?”

“Because,” retorted Lewis, “they’re bloody comedians, that’s why. Like to watch us suffer. Besides — doesn’t matter where they train us. It’s how, right? Now, the rats —”

“Rats are everywhere,” said the Tommy. “I don’t think even Cheek-Dawson knows where we’re going.”

“Yeah,” agreed Thelman. “You heard him last night. Said we’re ‘on call.’ “

“Not so fast, Thelma,” said Lewis. We haven’t qualified yet.”

“You know what I mean, Aussie.”

“You tryin’ to tell me they’ve got no idea where we’ll be going?”

“I didn’t say that,” answered Thelman.

“There you are then. I tell you it’s the tropics.”

“A quid says you’re wrong,” challenged the Tommy.

“You’re on,” said Lewis. “That’s a quid gone west, mate.” Lewis looked around. “Anyone else?”

Cheek-Dawson was standing by the door, opening the rucksack and counting out the requisite number of bricks, the sergeant collecting the first batch of those men who had failed and who would have to be taken back to Senny Bridge by the Land Rover. Buckling up the rucksack, Cheek-Dawson called David Brentwood over. “Your service record says you’re para trained.”

“Yes, sir.”

“HALO as well as regular?” By HALO he meant high-altitude, low-opening jumps — high-altitude to avoid AA and radar detection in free fall, low-altitude-opening for steering to a pinpoint landing. It was the kind of thing sky divers did, except they didn’t carry the enormous load commandos were required to. The difference was like that between one man swimming in a pair of trunks, the other in full gear and rifle.

“Only regular chute training,” replied David. “At Camp Lejeune. With Thelman. No HALO.”

“Not to worry. Shouldn’t take you too long once you’ve had the basics.” He paused, shifting the weight of his pack. “If you’re game.”

“When do we start?” said Brentwood.

“I admire your confidence,” replied Cheek-Dawson, zipping up the nylon storm suit. “But you have a few hoops to pass through yet.”

David said nothing. The truth was that, despite his bravado in front of Cheek-Dawson, he had a blister on his left heel that was about to burst. If he was to get back over the Beacons in the snowstorm, with a windchill factor of at least minus ten, it’d be a pure case of mind over matter. When Cheek-Dawson opened the door, flurries of snow flew through, stinging his face.

“If this is phase one,” said Thelman, slinging his rifle, “I’d hate to think what the next five are like.”

“So would I, mate,” said Lewis. “And it’s not five more.”

“Thank God,” said Thelman.

“It’s six!” said Lewis.

Cheek-Dawson looked back at the fifty-five men who had earned the right to more pain. “First man back gets free beer!” he announced heartily.

“That’s me!” shouted Lewis.

“Oh ja?” It was a West ranger commando. “I was the champion drinker in my Einzelkampf unit.”

“Einzel—what?” said Lewis, winking at Brentwood and Thelman. “Sounds like a flamin’ disease!”

“You want to bet on it, Aussie?” asked the German.

“Aw, don’t waste your dough, Fritz. You’ll need it for an oxygen bottle.” There was some hearty laughter despite the impending trek.

“Never mind,” said the German in correct, if heavily accented, English. “I will bet you twenty marks.”

“All right, Fritz,” rejoined Lewis. “But let’s make it real money. Dollars. U.S.”

Gambling was strictly against Queen’s Regulations, but Cheek-Dawson and the RSM were quiet on the matter. What Major Rye had in mind for this lot — those who were left at week’s end — would require more than top physical fitness. Their morale, as the U.S. Marines were fond of saying, would have to be “outstanding,” and if a wager here and there helped, so be it. Some of them would never get to spend it.

* * *

By 2200 hours that evening. Major Rye watched them straggle in after the killing pace set by both the German ranger and Cheek-Dawson, who had led most of the way as well as checking for stragglers. Rye noted there were seven more, three U.S. Marines and four British, who decided it was too tough for them. Rye spoke gently to the seven, as he had to the “cot cases” brought in earlier by the sergeant major in the Land Rover. Rye not only thanked them all for coming but spoke individually to each man as he signed out, asking the failures what they thought had been the hardest part of the trek for them and telling every one of them that they were welcome to reapply for SAS at anytime. Confidentiality, he told them, would be assured. Apart from their respective commanding officers, as far as their regiments were concerned, they had merely been seconded for other duties for a week. Major Rye then told them he had failed in his first attempt. It softened the blow visibly.

“What did you in, sir?” asked Lewis, out of breath but with his usual bluntness intact.

“Cross-country march,” answered Rye without hesitation. “Full pack and weapons. Somewhat heavier than you’re carrying now, I should add. Forty miles — rough terrain. Timed us at twenty hours.”

“When do we do that, sir?” asked Thelman.

“Oh, early on. Phase two.”

“Stone the crows!” said Lewis, but before he could say any more, Cheek-Dawson was telling the forty-eight men remaining that in half an hour’s time, he wanted them in four-man troops, or “fire teams, as you Americans call them.” Two men were assigned to be on the “blackboards” as each of the eleven four-man troops was to submit a plan of attack against the hypothetically heavily defended chapel at Merthyr Tydfil, whence they’d just come. Apart from judging initiative and organizational abilities on short notice, the purpose of this exercise was to have each group’s plan “rubbished” by three regular SAS NCOs from the air services’ oldest regiment: the Twenty-second, based in Hereford. In the main, this consisted of picking the plans apart and ridiculing each group’s suggestion as either “daft” or “bloody stupid,” while the men were mentally and physically exhausted, many of them disoriented by the sudden shock of the total immersion of the Beacons “caper,” as it was known in SAS. If they couldn’t stand having, in the lexicon of the SAS, “the piss taken out of ‘em,” then they were dropped. In SAS’s experience, bad temper was as fatal to an operation as bad planning. A line unit could put up with misfits, but misfits in the SAS had to “fit” together.