Operation Lavivrus

Every gym has a smell of its own – a mixture of blood, sweat, liniment and tears. Hundreds of bodies had been conditioned here, creating an ambience that leapt out and grabbed you by the throat. This was a place of work.

They started off quite sedately, stretching and jogging, warming up tired muscles, jogging around the periphery of the courts, punching out their arms from the shoulders on Jim’s command. They changed direction regularly, high-stepping and hopping on alternate legs. When Jim thought they had got in a rhythm he would order giant striding, bunny-hops and star jumps. Then he would snap, ‘On yer backs. Stand up. On yer fronts,’ and in a high, hysterical voice shout, ‘Top of the wallbars, GOo. Back in the centre, GOooo. Touch four walls and back again, GOoooo.’

The pace was unrelenting, and soon the troop was sweating freely. The sweat dripped on the floor, forming slippery areas that caused a few falls. There was no sympathy for the faller, who he was abused till he got back on his feet. ‘Get up, you idle bastard. No one told you to lie down.’

They completed short sprints, trying to pass the man in front. Teams were picked to race against each other. The race started with the first man carrying his team one at a time in a fireman’s lift to the end of the gym and back. When they had all completed this it was a wheelbarrow race, followed by a few circuits of leapfrog. They finished with a series of stretching exercises, starting with neck rolls, moving down the body and ending with hamstring stretches.

The regiment was motivated by self-discipline, and every man was responsible for his own standard of fitness. Most people give up when they are tired, which is normal, but to be special and to achieve that little bit extra the urge to let up must be overcome. That was where Jim came in. He applied the fine tuning and encouragement to increase performance. He took the men to levels that they never dreamed they could attain. He kept them going when muscles screamed and tendons and ligaments burnt. He drove them on through pain barriers, getting that little bit extra from them. He kept them going when they wanted to quit, and he made good men even better.

‘OK, lads. Nice and warm now, eh? On the line. When I say go, sprint to the first line, ten press-ups, return. Out to the next line, ten crunches, return. Out to the far line, ten star jumps, return. Stand by. GOooo.’

These shuttle runs seared the lungs. The three lines were fifteen metres apart; after six repetitions even the strongest of men were wasted, but Jim made them do twelve. Every part of the body was punished, Muscles that were seldom used protested violently at the abuse they suffered.

When they finished they just wanted to die, but Jim wouldn’t let them. He made them run on the spot to regain their breath. ‘Stand up straight, deep breath through the nose, force out through the mouth. Keep you legs shoulder width apart. Don’t stand there like a big tart! Brace up, man.’ Everyone was searching for breath, bent double trying to take the strain of scorching lungs. Excruciating pains radiated from all parts of the body; death seemed a good option.

Sweat was by now dripping freely onto the parquet flooring, and for the first time that morning Jim looked happy. ‘Come on, air is free. Take advantage of it. Where you’re going there may be none.’

Fitness is judged by the amount of effort sustainable over a given period, divided by the time it takes to recover. It’s what you do in a certain time that’s important. You could jog all day but not get a lot from it. Once you get into a rhythm it becomes monotonous. What this regiment did was rapid heart exertion, which created cat-like responses, speed and power.

Only Jim could talk by now. ‘Right, lads, jog around the courts while you get your second wind. Keep loose, breathe deeply.’

Most of the men were regretting their ill-discipline of the night before, and were grateful that they had not had their breakfast yet. Just as they started feeling human again, Jim raised the pace. ‘Up the wall bars . . .’ And so it went on relentlessly.

‘Right, lads, on the mats. It’s time for your old favourites.’ They lay on their backs with legs raised, doing a series of abdominal exercises. Jim led them, starting with repetitions of ten. The rest position was with legs extended and six inches above the mat; any one who lowered their limbs cancelled out that set of reps, which had to be done again. ‘This is where the power come from. You can’t cheat the gym.’ A continual chorus of groans, grunts, and shrieks accompanied their exertions. They stretched, twisted, curled and contorted, and just when they thought they had finished Jim introduced them to a new exercise. He kept up a non-stop barrage of obscenities in his native tongue. The lads wanted to laugh, but had forgotten how to.

‘Just one more set, lads. Keep flat, arms behind the head, keep the legs straight, point your toes.’ The gym was large enough to allow the body emissions to dissipate and the efficient air blowers replaced the stale air with fresh.

‘Good wee session, lads. Everyone OK?’ He assembled the troop in the centre of the gym, and allowed them to sit down while he briefed them. Praise from Jim was rare indeed, and hard earned. He didn’t let anyone take a drink; this was against his doctrine. It helped condition the body, and more importantly made the mind aware of what could be achieved on limited resources.

‘Now remember, speed kills. Do unto others as they will do unto you, but do it first.’ Jim surveyed the class, ensuring his message had sunk in.

‘Come here, Tony.’ Jim always selected Tony for his demonstrations. He was the punch bag, the rag doll, the guinea pig for the series of punches, strikes and kicks that were about to be delivered. He used Tony because they sparred together in their spare time. He only used someone else if he caught them slacking or not paying attention.

Tony had a martial arts background, making him a natural at close-quarter battle. He had boxed as a youth, representing his school and South-East London. He had dabbled in judo, karate and ninjitsu, but they had all left him wanting. They were non-contact sports and not very practical in a real-life situation. They did teach him timing and balance, both invaluable skills, and the mental side was very fulfilling. But CQB, as taught by Jim, satisfied his appetite. It was a distillation of all the martial arts, picking out the best from each and choreographing them in a series of lethal moves that were both practical and uncomplicated. Jim used everything that was banned in these arts. CQB was a military skill that encouraged fighting dirty. It was kill or be killed. Punching below the belt, kicks to the throat and head were all encouraged. Tony was blessed with the street-fighter’s instinct that no amount of training can instil. This was summed up by his father’s words when he coached him: ’You can put the dog in a fight, but you can’t put the fight in a dog.’

It’s a rarity to find a man who has power, speed, timing and balance, and with the street-fighter’s instinct they add up top a very special human being. Tony loved the training and tried to improve. He was never satisfied.

Jim launched a series of attacks on Tony with lightning speed. He attacked from all angles, going for the eyes, palm strike to the chin, elbow to the throat; the pace was furious. A swift kick to the groin was deflected and taken on the thigh, followed by a swinging right hand to the jaw. When a blow landed or was blocked, a shower of sweat cascaded from the victim, showering the watchful bystanders. Jim’s attacks were fast, but Tony defended himself with equal skill.

After the demonstration the class partnered off, going through a vigorous sparring session. They took it in turns to attack and defend, changing partners frequently so as not to grow used to their opponent. Jim and Tony went around giving advice and correcting techniques.

The lads loved it, especially when a blow landed. It was not so funny for the victim, but hilarious to onlookers. Frequently they were called to watch a new technique, and then they would partner up again to try it. Each move had to be instinctive, and the only way to instil this is repetitions. Unless this is carefully managed there is a danger of boredom creeping in, but this never happened with Jim. He knew when to move on, always getting the best from the class.

There was nothing fancy about the techniques. No sophisticated locks, holds or throws were taught, just straightforward attacks to the eyes, throat and groin area. Every now and then a scream would confirm the effectiveness of an attack, forcing Jim to smile. ‘Don’t kill each other. Save that for the enemy. Keep the power for the bags. I’m looking for speed and technique when sparring.’

To generate power they used focus pads and punch bags, taking it in turns to hold these for each other. Even wearing headguards and groin protectors the odd blow got through, but unlike footballers who lay on the ground writhing in fake agony the lads carried on, trying not to show that their opponent had hurt them. Minor scores were settled, and sometimes Jim had to step in and defuse the situation.

Thriving on success, and despising failure, every member of the regiment wanted to be a winner. Like every subject, success had to be taught; it had to become a way of life. The best classroom for this was the gym. Courage and determination were matured here; winners were groomed and their resolve nourished. However, the gym was no substitute for the rugged terrain of the Brecon Beacons, where stamina was forged and the elements conquered.

Tony was sparring with Peter, taking great delight in occasionally snapping his head back with a light palm strike to the forehead. Every time Peter lowered his guard or stopped moving he got slapped. This spurred him on to greater efforts to land a telling blow, but Tony dealt with these attacks with apparent ease. This further frustrated Peter, causing him to become ragged and predictable. Tony could sense this but couldn’t help grinning, moving fluidly in and out, countering with stinging blows to the head and body. Frustration turned to humiliation as accurate strikes became more frequent. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Peter’s chin from a split lip, and a small nick over his left eye was further aggravated by the generous amount of sweat flowing from his forehead. He did his best to hide his discomfort, however, aware that the troop was watching his performance.

Even though they were comrades, the rivalry between them surfaced. All the petty hates, differences and jealousies between officer and NCO emerged, and pride distorted reason. Peter missed Tony with a massive roundhouse punch that would have taken his head off had it landed. He got a dig in the midsection for his effort, and a kick found his knee, just as he was about to try the same.

‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ thought Peter; just seeing his opponent’s grinning face through red-misted eyes was reason enough. Bigger punches and kicks followed, but all had the same result.

Tony could sense the hostility, which disturbed him, so he back-pedalled to defuse the situation. Peter took this as a sign of weakness and renewed his attacks with added venom. A wild blow glanced off Tony’s head, triggering a short jab that flew before he could check himself. The wicked punch caught Peter on his injured eye, which split open immediately, spurting bright red blood down his face in a scarlet torrent.

Tony dropped his guard instantly, moving in to offer assistance. Peter snapped and drove his knee between Tony’s legs with the last of his energy and pent-up emotions. This dropped Tony to his knees like a shot elephant, folded in half and clutching the source of excruciating agony. His head was full of nauseous lights and his mouth thick with bile.

Jim had been watching this pair with interest, half expecting the outcome. He had let them carry on; it’s best sometimes to let things run their course. He went up to Tony, who was thrashing about on his knees like a fish out of water, grabbed his head and forced it down. The class stated to gather around the injured pair till Jim shouted, ‘What do you think this is, a peep show? Get back to work.’ In a softer voice he continued, ‘Stay on your knees, Tony. Force the air out.’ He looked over to Peter, who was pinching together the edges of his cut eye.

‘Here, boss, use this,’ he said, and threw him a clean white handkerchief that he had in his pocket. ‘Charlie, Fred, come and give a hand,’ he summoned the nearest couple. ‘Take the boss to the MI room, and you can help me with Tony.’

Between them they got Tony to his feet. His face was contorted with pain and he was forced to breathe through clenched lips. He had attempted to spit the bitter taste out of his mouth but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chest. A silver thread of spittle was still hanging from his lip. Jim supported him from behind, with his massive arms wrapped around his chest.

‘I’ve lost one of my nuts,’ muttered Tony. At this Jim held him tight, and with Charlie helping, dropped to a kneeling position. ‘Tell me when it drops’, he said, and he bounced Tony up and down on his buttocks. He had done this many times before, and Tony knew the routine; they called it ‘Testes Absentus’. It was their term for a testicle that goes up into the groin cavity. Some sumo wrestlers would do this deliberately before a contest, but to the uninitiated it is a very painful experience.

Eventually Tony got to his feet, supported by Jim, who was pressing his thumbs firmly into his abdomen trying to alleviate the burning, sickly pain.

‘Thanks, mate. I’d better go and see how the boss is,’ and Tony headed gingerly to the MI room.

Peter had four stitches, and Tony recovered apart from a slight headache and a loss of appetite. Most of the troop sported a bruise or welt of various sizes and colours, which they carried with pride. These were marks of the warrior; it went with the job.

After a shower and a late breakfast, the troop assembled at the armoury to draw out their personal weapons. Tony complimented his boss for the cheap shot and apologised for the cut.

They retired to the Troop Basha (billet), where they stripped and cleaned their weapons. While they were doing this they had an informal discussion on firepower. All the troop had a say on what was needed for their coming mission.

‘Weight is going to be critical,’ stated Peter, who got the ball rolling. ‘We can’t afford to get involved in a firefight.’ The mission was covert, so stealth was their best bet. If they were compromised at any stage, a rapid withdrawal was the strategy –what they called ‘shoot and scoot’.

‘What about silenced weapons?’ asked Chalky.

‘What do you think, Tony?’ Peter handed the question to Tony.

‘It’s so windy down there that I think they’ll be useless.’

Silenced weapons fire sub-sonic ammunition, which is slow, leaving them at the mercy of the wind. Range is also limited, and the stronger the wind, the less accurate they become. In a confined area they are noisy, much louder than the dull thud you hear in movies.

‘If the wind is that strong we’ll probably get away with the odd shot,’ offered Phil.

‘Maybe, but I definitely want some night sights in the patrol,’ countered Peter.

After further discussion and much deliberation Tony issued the following orders. ‘OK, lads. Every man an Armalite; Chalky, Fred, night sights. Grab some ammo and I’ll see you on the range.’

The AR15 had all the credentials needed to make it a first-class weapon. It was light, reliable, with a good rate of fire. The only modification that the lads would make was to cover the magazine release catch with a strip of tape to prevent accidental release.

Close to the camp was the 50-metre range. This had a railway line running past on one side and open fields on the other. There was a gypsy camp nearby, and sometimes they grazed their ponies on the range. Local kids, especially from the married quarters, used to glean the ranges frequently, picking up empty cases and the occasional live round. The MOD police patrolled the area regularly after strong complaints were made by the local school from teachers who had caught their pupils with some interesting souvenirs. These patrols were ineffective; they just tested the inbred skills of the kids, making it more of a challenge, raising the price of the bounty they found.

‘Let’s make it interesting and have a kitty, winner takes all. Are you all in favour?’ asked Tony. A show of hands confirmed this, and got the banter going.

‘You may as well give me the money now,’ insisted Ron. He was the youngest member of the troop.

‘If you shoot like you did last week you’ll do better with a bayonet,’ replied Fred.

To the side of the retaining wall, which was heaped with sand, there was a scoreboard reading, ’Moles 0 – Brummie 4’. Brummie was the range warden, a retired soldier, who waged a constant war on the moles that were responsible for the unsightly mounds of earth that spoilt the appearance of the well-kept grass. He nagged the lads, constantly telling them to pick up all their empties, burn the rubbish and repair the targets with paste when they finished.

Tony was talking to the warden when Peter butted in. ‘Come on, let’s get started,’ he said in a brusque voice.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Brummie. ‘Wrong time of the month? And what’s happened to his eye?’

Breathing control is the secret to accurate shooting. Inhaling strongly through the nose, taking up the first pressure on the trigger while focusing on the target, is the first stage. Holding the breath when the aim is confirmed is the second stage. Squeezing the trigger is the final phase. This eliminates any wavering of the weapon.

The only disturbance they had was the 10.30 from Cardiff. A few excited passengers were seen starring out the windows as the train sped by. This did not stop the lads shooting. Once they started they finished the practice; only a fault with a weapon would prevent this. When all the detail had stopped firing they were checked by Tony and Peter before getting the ‘guns clear’, which allowed them to dress forward and check their targets.

Corporal Phil Jones was the best shot of the day. His group of ten rounds could all be covered by a single patch. His MPI (main point of impact) was one inch above dead centre.

‘Well done, Phil. Here’s the loot.’ Peter handed over the kitty to an outstretched hand the size of a dinner plate. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’

‘I’m slightly high, but at 100 yards I will be spot on,’ the tall corporal commented, stuffing the handful of loose change in his pocket. Phil was a country lad from Somerset, a powerful six-footer. At thirty years of age he was in prime condition, and was one of those men who seemed to have been around for ever; in fact he was in his tenth year with the regiment. He played second row with Tony, forming a solid partnership.

‘Tony, can you cover for me till two?’ asked Pete.

‘Sure, Pete. Give her my love. Tell her you cut your eye shaving,’ replied Tony as he carried on cleaning up the range.

Back in camp the lads cleaned their weapons sitting around Trooper Ron Evans’s bed space.

‘What’s wrong with the boss, Tony? He don’t seem too happy,’ enquired Fred.

‘I think he is in love again,’ replied Tony, ‘and he’s not too pleased with his eye.’

‘Serve him right. It might slow him down a bit,’ grumbled Phil.

‘What will, the girl or the eye?’ asked Tony. They carried on discussing the captain’s love life as they cleaned and oiled their weapons.

‘Tony, can I get away? The eldest ain’t too well. The missus was up all night with her.’ Trooper Andy Swingler was the troop signaller. He was the only member of the troop with children, and was a devoted father. He was never short of babysitters, as the troop volunteered when he wanted a night out with his wife Jane. It was a good place to take girlfriends, especially when funds were low.

Andy’s five foot eight inch frame was packed with sinewy muscles. He was a keep-fit fanatic and could run all day. He still had his raw Brummy accent after ten years in the army.

‘No problem, Andy. Hand your weapon in and be back here at two. We’ve got a briefing about tomorrow,’ said Tony.

Peter added, ‘Listen in, everyone. Tomorrow we have an early start. Parade at the guardroom 0200, arrive Lyneham 0400, fit parachutes for take-off at 0430, with P hour at 0530. Staff, will you take over? The Colonel wants to see me.’

Tony was taken aback by Peter’s formal attitude, which did not go unnoticed by the men. He tried to maintain the same expression, continuing the briefing in fine detail.

‘Chalky, you will be pleased to know the DZ is Foxtrot Charlie on Sennybridge. Try not to break your leg this time.’

Keen eyes studied the map displayed before them, following the pointer as Tony explained the run in and release points. These were determined by the wind, and the long-range forecast was favourable.

‘Draw and fit parachutes this afternoon, and pack your containers. Keep the weight down to sixty pounds. Three Troop are acting as enemy and have challenged us to a speed march afterwards. I’m trying to get the colonel to put up a case of beer for the winners. It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, so I hope Pete reminds him.’

Rendezvous points (RVs) were given so they could all meet up and clear the drop zone as a troop as quickly as possible. Emergency RVs and grid references were also given, together with contingency plans in case the jump was cancelled.

Although the radiators were on full blast, it was still cold in the temporary briefing room. The main ops room was being revamped and they had to make do in an old wooden hut that was due to be demolished as part of the new camp rebuild. The very mention of parachuting also brought a cold chill to the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

‘Chalky, med pack; Andy, radio, check with sigs on frequencies. Charlie and Ron, I’d like you to take the thermal imagers. Make sure they have new batteries. Chalky and Fred have the night sights.’ Tony paused, looking back over his notes. ‘I think that’s it. Any questions?’

It was way past eight o’clock before Tony returned to the cottage. Rays of light escaping from gaps in the curtains were a welcoming sight to a very tired man. His groin protested at the uphill run, and he was sorry he had declined a lift.

During the run he had time to reflect on what they had done that day. He kept wondering if he had covered everything for tomorrow, and hoped the weather stayed settled like it was now. One vivid picture kept returning, replacing all other images: the expression on the captain’s face in the gym. Try as he might he couldn’t shake it off. Even the scattered light of the city below him and the brilliant stars above failed to erase it. ‘I’m overtired,’ he thought.

Angie greeted him warmly, hugging him closely. She could feel the tiredness and tension in his body. ‘What sort of a day has my little soldier had?’ she asked in a sultry tone.

Tony dropped on the sofa in a weary heap, before answering, ‘You know when you got hurt as a child and mummy used to kiss it better . . .’

Peter looked in the mirror, checking the neat line of stitches. It was midnight, and although he was tired sleep wouldn’t come.

‘Look at that lot. That’s all I need. What are Mo’s parents going to think of me?’ For the first time in his life he was worried about other people. ‘I look more like a bouncer than an army officer,’ he reflected, tenderly rubbing the swelling.

Mo had given him no sympathy, and her attitude when they met at lunchtime was closer to disgust than sorrow. He knew he would be away soon, and not knowing when he was coming back didn’t help matters. She was keen for him to meet her parents before he went, and had described him as a sweet, gentle man. She could imagine her mother’s face when Punchy Pete turned up, cut, bruised and swollen.

Things were happening too fast for Pete’s liking: rehearsals, training, briefings, and on top of all this an injury. He was also concerned at the way the troop had rallied around Tony rather than him. He tried lying down again, closing his eyes and hoping for the relief of sleep to blank out his anxieties. Army beds were not the most comfortable of berths, and he struggled.