A couple of hours out I started worrying about our late take-off, because our timings on the following night were going to be critical. I suspected that after the long haul to Cyprus the crew would have to have a regulation break. Then there'd be a three-hour flight to Siwa, the Egyptian military base — and we needed to be there by early evening, so that we could do a quick transfer to the chopper and be on the ground within reach of our objective while there were still several hours of darkness ahead.
Sweating about it, I headed for the flight deck to ask the skipper what the drill was. Up there, everything seemed pleasantly relaxed; the atmosphere was less claustrophobic than in the back, the noise level much lower. With the plane on autopilot, Pete and his co pilot sat chatting over their head-sets, and through the windshield a vast array of stars was visible above us, with the lights of some German town twinkling far below.
'Fear not,' said the skipper when I put my question to him. 'We can fly, and remain on duty, for up to sixteen hours at a stretch. If you want we could take you straight on to your destination with only an hour to refuel. It's up to you.'
'No, no,' I said. 'We're not that pushed. Let's stick to the schedule. I'd rather come into Siwajust on dark, in case there are eyes around the airfield. Christ knows what the security's like on Egyptian bases. As long as we're there by 2100, we'll be fine.'
'OK, then. Our ETA in Akrotiri is now 0330 Zulu.
That's 0630 local. Siwa's an hour behind that. If you don't want to be there before dusk we won't need to take off until 2000 local. That'll put us into Siwa at about 2200, by which time it should be good and dark.
That suit you?'
'Perfect.'
'In that case, I'll put in for a departure slot at 2000.'
He scribbled i note on his kneepad.
Reassured, I went back, pulled on some ear- defenders and got my head down like everyone else.
The next thing I knew, I heard the engine-note dropping as we began our descent into Akrotiri. After a landing smooth as silk, Pete taxied offto a secure area at one corner of the airfield and we stumbled out into a beautiful dawn. The sky was clear, the air warm but still fresh, with sharp, lemony scents all around.
'Who's for a peach?' said Whinger, giving an almighty yawn.
'Peach?' said Pat. 'What the fuck are you on about?
'The beach, cunt.'
'To hell with the beach,' Tony told him. 'Wha: about a shower and breakfast?'
Taking our day-sacks, we bussed across to th sergeants' mess, sh9wered, and got ourselves big fry-ups Then, and all day, we kept close together in a group discouraging approaches and questions from outsiders We were given basic accommodation — bare rooms wit[two bunks in each — and so spent most of the time in o around the mess. Everybody was eager to spruce up theil tans, which the English spring had hardly got going, bu by mid-morning the sun was seriously hot and cautioned the guys about getting burnt. Not that the really needed any warning; because they'd all serve, abroad in hot countries, they knew that if they did g, down with sunburn it would be their own fault and the could be put on a charge, just as if they'd got drunk o caught a dose of clap.
Even if we'd wanted to, we couldn't have left th, base — partly for security reasons, but mainly becaus, there was always a chance our departure time might b, brought forward. So the lads screwed the nut on an idea of looking for amusement, and accepted that th was just a steady day.
We spent much of the morning going through our plans in an informal O-group, sitting on the concrete floor of an unfinished building which had a roof but no walls, so that plenty of air drifted across it. In particular we confirmed the six away-points, or emergency rendezvous — the points in the desert south of Ajdabiya we'd head for if we were forced to split up — which we'd already punched into our Magellan GPS sets.
These were designated 'E1KV One, EIKV Two' and so on. They existed only in our minds, and there were no marks on any of our 1:50,000 maps, but those sets of figures could easily prove lifesavers.
We also concentrated on correlating the latitude and longitude readings punched into the Magellans with the old-fashioned grid-system on the maps. The lat-long figures were more accurate, and there was always a chance that the batteries in the GPS sets would fail or that there'd be a shortage of satellites overhead at some critical moment. If either of those things happened, we'd be forced back on to the more primitive avigational system of grid-references and compasses.
Our Here remained under guard where it had come to rest, and it attracted no attention because the field was dotted with similar planes, landing and taking offall day as they ferried personnel and stores southwards towards Egypt and the exercise. Soon after midday a bowser-truck went across to refuel ours, and when it was clear we walked back to the plane to break out the bundle of desert clothes; but we soon spewed out of the cargo bay cursing horrendously, because with its tailgate closed the aircraft had heated up like an oven, the inside temperature had soared well into three figures and we decided the job could wait until we were airborne that evening.
It was at lunchtime that we hit a problem. At the far end of the long mess hall Stew spotted someone he'd known pretty well in his parent regiment, the Cheshires. We realised that they must be acting as marshals on the base for the duration of the exercise, and that this created a serious risk that somebody would recognise him and start asking questions — potentially a major disaster, and a prospect which haunted all members of the SAS on covert operations. All Stew could do was slip away as soon as he'd finished his meal and lie low in the room he'd been allocated until it was time to leave.
For the rest of us, the best feature of the sergeants' mess was the supply of fresh oranges. We reckoned they must have come straight off the trees on the island, because they tasted a hundred times sweeter and fresher than any orange we'd had before. A great big basket of them stood at the end of the counter, and after Pat had eaten-four, straigh down, I said to him, 'Watch it, mate, or you'll have the runs.'
'Last vitamin C for a week,' he retorted as he put away yet another — and we all pouched a couple to eat during the next leg of the journey.
This time our departure ran smoothly, and within a minute or two of take-off we were heading southeast over the Mediterranean. As soon as we were in level flight we sorted out our civilian clothes and changed into them, bundling up our DPMs for return to Cyprus.
Our desert gear smelled musty and unfamiliar — Christ alone knew who had worn the stufflast. Whinger yelled that his shirt stank like an Arab's jock-strap, and Stew shouted back, 'It'll stink of you soon enough.' My own shirt wasn't much better, and I shook myself around inside the drab, buff material to get the feel of it. The shirt, a pair of sand-coloured trousers and a thin grey jersey were all I reckoned I'd need.
Our makeshift hammocks had remained in place, so we climbed back into them and lay there in the dim light, ear-defenders in place, each thinking his own thoughts. Mine were of Tim and Tracy — and in particular the boy's paintings I'd found in the desk at home. There was one I remembered in detaiclass="underline" a tank blowing up, with a brilliant, jagged flash of flame all round it and some spiky wrecks of shattered trees in the background. Where could a kid of four have picked up such violent images? Only from the TV, or maybe from listening to me talk about the Gulf. I wished he'd get interested in nature and try drawing the things like squirrels and rabbits that he saw every day. Perhaps when he was older.