“You owe me twenty dollars,” the tall German ranger said, approaching Lewis, Brentwood, and Thelman, the four of them forming one of the four-man troops.
“What’s your name, sport?” Lewis asked the German.
“Wilhelm Schwarzenegger.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Willie. I’m a spot short now. Fix you up on payday.”
“Hey — you any relation to Arnie?”
“Who?”
“You know, old Arnie Schwarzenegger. Used to be a big movie star years ago. Muscles like chickens’ insteps.”
“No. I do not think so. Maybe way back.”
“So, Aussie,” David interrupted. “How we going to take the chapel?”
“Ah,” said Lewis, putting his rifle on his bunk and then walking back to the group. “Like Willie here says. ‘No problem.’ Piece o’ cake. Bracket the bastards with a mortar, and while they’ve got their noggins down, move in. Not too wide a front, though — we’d end up shooting one another.”
“Yeah?” said Lewis.
“Yes,
“Yes, Sergeant Major?”
“In this regiment you may hate your mother, you may not pay your taxes, but you are
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Carry on.”
Sheepishly Lewis walked over, got his rifle, and returned. For the first time since he’d met him, David Brentwood saw that the Australian was embarrassed — though he wasn’t at a loss for words. “Old fart! I’m never out of reach of my weapon.”
“You were then,” said Thelman.
“I mean my cock, Thelma!”
“Jesus, you’re rude.”
“Okay,” said David. “What size?”
“My cock?” said Lewis. Wilhelm was shaking his head.
“The
“I meant a light job,” explained Lewis. “Sixty-mill. Fifty-pound barrel. Rounds weigh in at less than ten.”
“You must be joking!” said one of the SAS NCOs wandering among the groups. “Snowing to beat the band and you’re talking about mortars! You’d get moisture in the barrel and— poof! Unless you’re a good infielder, mate, you’ll end up with your family jewels blown across five acres.”
“We’re not that stupid,” said David. “We’d make sure the barrel was—”
“No?” cut in another NCO. “You fire a mortar round and next minute you’d be on their infrared scopes. Big blobs against the snow, you’d be. You blokes might as well hang out a shingle — tell ‘em where you are.”
“Stop screwing around with mortars,” said the British NCO. “Go in fast. Don’t give ‘em time to think China!”
“We have any artillery backup?” asked Thelman.
The British NCO exchanged an incredulous glance with one of the American NCOs. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Absolutely pathetic!” He squatted down next to Thelman. “If we had artillery that close, you ning-nong, we wouldn’t need Special Air Service, right? Christ — what did you blokes have for lunch? Fairy floss, was it?”
Thelman glowered at the British NCO. David quickly cut in. “You’re assuming they’ve got infrared scopes,” he put to the NCOs.
“What we’re assuming,” said the British NCO, “is that you blokes don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.
As the two NCOs moved on to the next group, Thelman was still steamed. “What the hell’s fairy floss?”
“Candy floss,” said Brentwood.
“Yeah,” said Lewis encouragingly. “Don’t let ‘em get to you, Thelma.”
David snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it!”
The NCOs turned around.
“Tell them to surrender,” David explained. “Give ‘em two minutes. Tell ‘em we’ve got the place completely surrounded. Bluff. It’s worked—”
“Oh,” said the British NCO, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, that’s brilliant i’n’it? Got your Berlitz tape with you, have you, Brentwood?”
“No,” said David steadily, “but one of us would speak the language.”
“My,” said the British NCO. “Would ‘e now?”
“Yes,” chimed in Aussie. “SAS troop of four always has one man who speaks the lingo of the opposing force.”
“And who told you guys that?” asked the American.
“No one,” replied Brentwood. “But Aussie has a point. Seems your recruiting offices placed a lot of emphasis on a second language.”
“Yeah,” said Aussie. “Dave’s right. Your bloke was very interested in knowing I spoke Malay.”
“So,” continued David, “I figure there’s one guy in every troop who—”
“Do you now?” cut in the British NCO.
“Yes.”
The American NCO couldn’t contain a smirk, and his British colleague gave in. “All right, Sherlock Holmes, you’re right. But how do you know what language you’ll be using?”
“You find out that by asking the other three in the troop whether they speak a foreign language.”
“Carry on,” the Brit said, and walked over with the American toward Cheek-Dawson, who was picking the plan of another would-be fire team apart.
“I told you,” said Lewis, looking around triumphantly at the other three in the group. “The bloody rats. We’re being trained for the tropics. My Malay!”
“How about Fritz here?” asked Thelman, indicating Schwarzenegger. He speaks German as well as English. Right, Fritz? Could be we’re going to Germany.”
“Aw, rats!” said Aussie dismissively, not noticing his pun. “Old Freeman’s lot ‘ave gone through Germany like a packet of salts. It’s Malaya. Southeast Asia, boys. Communist insurgency. I can smell it. Hell, that’s where the SAS cut their teeth. Fighting the Commies in Malaysia.”
“I say it’s Germany,” said Thelman. “Rushing out SPETS maybe?”
“No way,” retorted Lewis. “Absolutely no way.”
Brentwood was feeling the blister thawing out, hurting like hell. It told him that he wouldn’t make phase three, and he was struck once again how sometimes such small things could change your destiny. “Look,” he told the others. “Four of us came together by chance. First, only two of us are probably going to make it through the course. They’re the odds. And those two’ll end up in another group of four. So we don’t know where anyone’s going. So let’s drop it.”
Schwarzenegger nodded. “Good point, Brentwood.
“Yeah, Dave,” conceded Lewis. “Guess you’re right. Hell — I don’t think even old Cheek knows.”
But Brentwood’s real reason for not wanting to speculate was that Schwarzenegger’s mention of SPETs reminded him of Lili.
