The Man in the White Suit_ The Stig, Le Mans, The Fast Lane and Me - Ben Collins [59]
I had no authority to say that, but it paid off. We were granted a new car for the next race a few months later, one that could actually turn left. In the meantime the soldiering business became a full-time preoccupation.
After months of intensive training our assault rifles became extensions of our bodies. Contact drills, our immediate response to enemy fire, were honed from hundreds of rehearsals of choreographed moves designed to inflict maximum damage on the enemy.
We crept across the vast open plains of the firing range on the tips of our toes, rifle in the shoulder. Every sense was jacked; we could almost smell the targets before they appeared. The river to our left offered potential cover, as did the rising valley to the right.
The glimmer of a target – the weapon fired and the target dropped.
‘Contact front.’
Our tiny group dealt out a murderous rate of fire. Live rounds pierced the air as we wove past one other, taking control of the ground. Fire and manoeuvre, all under the watchful eyes of our instructors, who were judging our performances.
‘Baseline, break left,’ Ninja shouted.
I lobbed a smoke grenade and we hurtled into the confines of the river one by one, pepper-potting along it, firing all the way. Sprint, down, fire, up, sprint, down, fire; lead turned into brass.
Burning legs pumped through the river towards my buddies as we broke away from contact. We were so close we were firing past each other’s shoulders. I noticed a flash and heard an unusual noise, the hiss of a close round. Tread carefully.
Magazine changes became a bodily function. You felt the weapon lighten, anticipating the click at the end of the magazine, diving into cover, automatically slapping home the next magazine, releasing the working parts, re-engaging – Bang. We were totally tuned in.
My rounds ricocheted off another target 200 metres away, but it still wouldn’t fall. Ken pounced on my shoulder. ‘Fack’s sake, hit that fackin’ target!’
I rounded on him. ‘It’s fucking broken, Staff!’
I switched to another and blatted it down.
All morning we leapt over obstacles, rolled through firing positions and sprinted from one objective to the next. We bombed up for the next assault, established security and analysed the situation. Sweat poured and hands shook from the adrenalin and the high lactate concentrations in our muscles. Ken was looking for the smallest error.
‘Fackin’ switch on. This is when we’re looking at you, when you’re facked. Right. Fackin’ close in, lads.’
We huddled around Ken. Our steaming breath rose from the circle like a halo. He stared intently at each of us, one by one. I took a slug from my water bottle and hacked at the phlegm in my throat.
Ken was the devil to most of us but I admired his perfectionism, and not just the ability to swear several times in every sentence. His relentless abuse was timeless, whether it was lunchtime and someone wasn’t loading rounds into a magazine fast enough, or 3am and someone wasn’t in exactly the spot where they were supposed to be for an ambush. He cared, I suspected, because he had witnessed the consequences of getting it wrong.
‘The next objective is in that fackin’ wood up there. You fight through that position, yeah. Fackin’ whatever it takes, lads. In Para Reg, right, we fix fackin’ bayonets.’
We advanced to contact in sections, losing sight of the far right flank behind the tree line as we cleared the open ground.
There was a crescendo of loud bangs.
‘CONTACT FRONT …’
‘You, you, you and YOU – you’re fackin’ DEAD.’
Unlike the real thing, being ‘killed’ on the range wasn’t all bad. I checked my safety and hit the deck. Johnny and Bernie started hauling me towards cover. The effort was carved across their faces.
‘You two, pick up his fackin’ bergen.’
‘You’re joking,’ Bernie moaned, adding the dragging weight of my pack to my carcass. Out of sight of the DS I kicked my legs as much as I could to help propel my weight.
They dropped