by Jack Challis
CONTENTS
1. Chapter One SAS Death by Selection
2. Chapter Two Two Redheads and a Blond
3. Chapter Three More Tricks than a Cartload of Monkeys
4. Chapter Four The Return of Manus Xingue
5. Chapter Five Mendoza’s new boots and Chavez’s tricks
6. Chapter Six An Angry Baba Amarilla
7. Chapter Seven Jaguars that walk on two legs
8. Chapter Eight Nocturnal Cat-men
9. Chapter Nine Our Venereal Friend
10. Chapter Ten Help from a Parasite
11. Chapter Eleven A Primeval Scene
12. Chapter Twelve A Beautiful and Capable Woman
13. Chapter Thirteen A Million Dollar Ear
14. Chapter Fourteen A Man Eating Cat and a Wife Eating Man
15. Chapter Fifteen The Green fields of Wexford
16. Chapter Sixteen A Coven of Vampires
17. Chapter Seventeen Those Who Dare Sometimes Lose
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Ian and Kim Von Heintze, Victoria and everyone at South Wye learning centre.
CHAPTER ONE
SAS: DEATH BY SELECTION
The SAS jungle training camp somewhere in the jungles of Belize comprises two long Nissen huts and a dozen palm bashas. The Nissen huts contain an unmarked HQ, stores and armoury – the bashas suffice for barracks and a canteen.
Two separate groups of scruffy, longhaired, unshaven SAS troopers, looking like lethargic Gypsies, slouch and sprawl in the shade, silently watching a third group of departing soldiers who resemble heavily armed tramps. These troopers shuffle, hands in pockets and monkeys on their backs, towards camouflaged vehicles, their jungle training over.
Among these elite fighting men are tall guardsmen, robust paratroopers and some individuals who look like something the Chindits left behind! Some of these soldiers would not have looked out of place outside King’s Cross Station, holding a can of Tennents strong lager, swearing at passers-by!
The lack of banter between the three SAS Sabre Squadrons is unusual among normal fighting men. For, contrary to general belief, the loyalty and pride of one Sabre squadron does not extend to the other two. The only army uniformity visible is thin rollups hanging from grimy, stubbly-framed mouths. In short ‘a right bloody useless shower of wankers’ to any regular RSM; but first impressions can be deceiving!
These highly trained soldiers belong to the most elite fighting formation in the world. The US Special Forces of course disagree. However, this does not stop them unloading some of their failures onto the Regiment, usually as ‘deniable operations’ (operations the British government will deny and disclaim). No shouted orders, whitewashed marking stones or saluting can be heard or seen. There is no spit and polish or army bullshit in this regiment!
Troopers are encouraged to voice their opinions on any operations and are given the privilege of carrying personal concealed weapons of choice.
21 SAS (senior by tradition) are known as the ‘Artists’ – ‘Piss-artists’ to the other two Sabre squadrons. 21 SAS is selected from regular fighting formations mostly comprising paratroopers, who consider themselves the elite – even before joining the regiment. When the Paras and the Scots, for example, are in town – expect trouble!
In such situations any serving SAS troopers present, usually alone or few in number, disappear, pretending to be civilians – or light on their feet (prancing pansies) sensing trouble in advance.
Based on the presumption that even an enraged, laser-eyed Jock, with the breath of a flame thrower and a tam-o-shanter the size of a dustbin lid, with the battle of Flodden to revenge, he did not fancy exchanging bodily fluids (blood) with a raging, English, shirt-lifting fudge-packer! These kinds of subterfuge do not always work, but show initiative and the individuality the Regiment requires of its men whether fighting, observing or running away.
If 21 SAS consider themselves superior, 22 and 23 SAS do not agree! In reality all SAS squadrons undergo the same heart, mind and backbreaking Selection and Interrogation ordeal.
The insignia of the SAS troopers’ former regiments are displayed proudly on their fighting vehicles for both nostalgic and practical reasons but not on their uniforms. No SAS trooper will ever willingly admit he is Regiment when captured – it does not pay to.
Reasons for joining the SAS Sabre Squadrons vary from man to man. Some join for the honour of wearing the famous badge (although it can never be displayed in public).
The lazy and untidy join to escape the crippling army bullshit, and for adventure. Others join to fight and kill with half an eye open for an opportunity of personal gain that begins initially by trying to fiddle their supply of sovereigns, hidden in the escape belts. “I gave them to a wandering Arab for water,” used to be a favourite.
Some troopers still hold dear David Stirling’s principle that, ‘if you need it and no one’s looking – nick it!’
American troops hide their equipment when the SAS are visiting; the fault of a liberal government who prefer to spend money on lesbian donkeys in Brighton and sending underage delinquents on safari holidays.
The regiment’s great success derives from the hardest and deadliest training regime in the world. Beware – many come, few are chosen. There is first a brutal Selection and Interrogation to overcome.
From two hundred recruits, only a handful will be badged. Do not believe the mock selections you see on TV – the real thing would not pass the censor.
Those sensitive to insult need not apply, for they and their entire families, not forgetting dear old blind granny, will be insulted; there are no PC rules during interrogation!
Anyone sensitive to pain be warned. You will be driven mad by white noise, punched, kicked, half-drowned in a tank of water, then end up being suffocated with a damp rag over your face.
You will be chained to a railway line on a winter’s night, bollock–naked, then drenched with a bucket of cold water. The freezing recruit will feel the vibration of an oncoming train through the rails.
Within earshot, the recruit will hear his interrogators panic and begin to blame each other for the loss of the key to release the recruit before the train cuts his hands and legs off. The terrified recruit will also hear his interrogators discuss how they plan to clear themselves at the forthcoming inquest into his death!
Hidden observers closely monitor the recruit’s behaviour at this crucial time. Some recruits will scream blue murder. Others, more volatile, will call the interrogators every kind of useless, stupid bastards under the sun. However, a few will try to position their arms and legs to escape injury – this is the kind of man the Regiment wants. In reality of course the oncoming train is on a different line – unknown to the panicking recruit!
You will be shot at with live ammo – sometimes hit and killed; the number of deaths in Selection is high. You will be pushed to within half an inch of death by physical exhaustion, heart failure and exposure during sixty-four kilometre marches carrying twenty-five kilos plus weapons and ammunition.
You will be chased over Brecon Beacons by a ‘Hunter Force’ made up of soldiers from different regiments, with one objective; to capture you and give you a bloody good kicking.
The regiment encourages individuality – there are the cautious, the cunning, the cruel and the courageous. A sensitive man will leave the regiment troubled. Suicides and self-destruction after service are not uncommon. What the SAS selection and training cannot do is change a man’s personality.
While the battle for the Tora Bora caves in Afghanistan 2003 raged, the silent approach of a trooper surprised a young Taliban. His life hung by a thread, depending on the personality and nature of his SAS captor! The Taliban’s eyes
pleaded for mercy. His SAS captor stared into the youth’s eyes for a brief moment. A moderate blow from the rifle butt made the Taliban’s head spin but he was still alive, “Allah be praised”.
Later, another SAS trooper’s silent approach caught another young Taliban facing Mecca. The Taliban gripped a dagger on the blind side of the SAS trooper. The blackened face of the SAS man broke into a smile, showing white teeth. The Taliban let the dagger drop; he was not quite ready for paradise yet, his brain reasoned, until a high velocity bullet shattered it and his reasoning. The smile was a trick!
Once badged, you obtain the respect of your peers and other fighting regiments. Although this will not guarantee protection if you are shuftying another soldier’s bint, the SAS have a fair share of groupies.
The privileges are many. You can sport a six o’clock shadow, turn up for work looking like a wino who is sleeping rough. You can grow sideburns, a droopy moustache, even a mullet if you are still caught in a fashion time-lock. (A few still are.)
The majority of SAS dresses smartly, no longer favouring certain brand names of clothing or footwear that mark them as SAS in Civvy Street. A trooper off duty must merge into the crowd – his life depends on it.
The IRA has long memories and good intelligence. They are fighting for a cause they passionately believe in. All SAS adopt a profession if asked by a stranger or neighbour. It is no good saying you are a scaffolder if you do not know the difference between a ‘minge’ and a ‘dog’s cock’!
Every stranger must be assessed; a casual acquaintance could be the death of him. And lastly, ‘Johnny Testosterone’ must be kept under control!
A young SAS trooper had just finished a two-month spell in a three–man assassination squad in Ireland. He was never allowed out of barracks when off duty in case he was recognised. On the streets intended IRA targets would be approached on foot or shot from a moving car.
Back home, looking for ‘Jack and Danny’, he noticed an attractive girl enter a Fulham wine bar. Her accent sounded dodgy but his nuts tightened when she sleepily looked at him through half-inch long false eyelashes. He was slightly put off by a hole in her black fishnets and traces of mud on her stilettos (always a clue when spotting a Paddy).
She flashed her buffer pads and suspenders at the young trooper: this piece of kit is always fatal to any horny soldier! Caution took a nosedive – Johnny Testosterone copped a lively lazy. They moved on; she was driving. The thought of a “Donald” spurred him. However, he pissed himself when she stopped outside an Irish pub in Kilburn! She insisted he accompany her to pick up some keys.
Warning bells rang. ‘I am armed,’ he consoled himself. Inside, three men were watching him; two were typical ‘McAlpine’s Fusiliers’, donkey jackets, turned down Wellingtons and plenty of mud. The third man looked an intellectual. This man pocketed a packet of ‘Sweet Afton’ Republic cigarettes when he saw the young trooper enter with the girl. The girl quickly headed towards the toilets in the corridor. The intellectual-looking man soon followed, returning shortly.
The young SAS trooper noticed the girl stamp out a cigarette in the corridor before rejoining him. He left his drink and headed for the toilets, picking up the girl’s butt end on the way; it was a Sweet Afton! She had been smoking Silk Cut before.
The young SAS soldier’s nuts quickly untightened. He swiftly disappeared into the night cursing himself for being such a prick, and nursing a pair of aching lover’s nuts!
Old Turkish proverb: ‘When a man is hard, he is soft – when a man is soft, he is hard!’
Sometimes a man wiggles through the fine net of Selection. Such a man was the happy-go-lucky young cockney, Jack Lacy, an ex-Petticoat Lane barrow boy and marine with plenty of rabbit. ‘Jolly Jack Tar ashore’ was Lacy’s attitude to life.
Lacy’s priorities were simple; strong lager with rum chasers, tits, tarts, tall tales and a spot of tea-leafing – when the opportunity occurred. Lacy’s sole ambition was to go through life avoiding a dose of siff, his biggest dread being the ‘Venus-Mercury syndrome’ – five minutes’ pleasure with Venus: two years’ agony with Mercury.
Lacy had heard about the agony of the dreaded ‘umbrella’ up the one-eyed trouser-snake from the older marines on the wind-up.
Lacy also suffered from arachnophobia. The sight of a spider, especially the big E-type variety, made Jack Lacy feel ‘Tom and Dick’.
Jack Lacy’s answer to all forms of personal danger that his big Cockney mouth and sticky fingers got him into was to leg it! As Redcaps and enraged brothel-keepers around the world soon realised, Lacy’s ability to leap over obstacles in frightened flight made him extremely difficult to apprehend!
Jack Lacy did not take soldiering or life seriously; he could not kill a man, it was not in his nature. Yet Lacy possessed qualities highly valued in the regiment. He was a top marksman, with rare twenty-ten vision. What a man with twenty-twenty vision could see clearly at a hundred yards, Jack Lacy could see clearly at two hundred.
No man could better him in the water – or on a long distance march.
At the end of a hard day, when other soldiers were knackered and silent, Jack Lacy would still have plenty of gob. This did not endear him to his peers.
Big mouthed Cockneys, surprisingly, are not the most numerous or popular breed in the Regiment, especially with the Celts and the northerners.
Being an ex-marine did not help either. A marine, to a soldier, can only be summed up in one way: rum bum, baccy and full of bullshit!
Many soldiers chose to believe (it provides excellent wind-up material) that sailors and marines are rum-sodden golden-riveters who tell more lies than Tom Pepper! Sailors and marines also tend to outgun soldiers when it comes to drinking. It would be harder to find a teetotal marine or sailor than a pig’s trotter in Golders Green!
The regiment looks for the X-factor, comprising intelligence, initiative and imagination. Young Jack Lacy possessed all three qualities a-plenty. He had the intelligence to know when to leg it – before a big knuckle sandwich connected! He had the initiative to nick anything that took his fancy and the imagination to undress any female at thirty yards!
One of the interrogators from 21 SAS felt Lacy might wiggle through the fine net of Selection. The interrogator was determined to stop him being badged, even if it meant killing him during interrogation. He nearly succeeded! Although Lacy was slow to anger and quick to flight; he swore revenge. He was an excellent sniper. His only clue to the identity of his silent, murderous interrogator – a tattoo!
CHAPTER TWO
TWO REDHEADS AND A BLOND
Three months before the present events: Major Ely Bodeen sits in his office, fancy cowboy boots on the desk, at the US Special Forces jungle base in Columbia, near the Brazilian border. He idly thumbs through a porno magazine. The phone rings – the Major answers – ‘Yeah?’
On the phone is General Devereux, a typical Southern gentleman, at Special Forces Headquarters Missouri.
‘Ely, you incompetent son-of-a-bitch – I wanted this operation to go as quickly as shit through a goose! The chopper was at the rendezvous to pick up the money – none of your boys showed up!’
Major Ely Bodeen quickly takes his cowboy boots off the desk and does up his top button.
‘There were complications, Sir,’ Major Bodeen answers in a strong Southern drawl. ‘One of the Mafia paymasters escaped. He returned with a superior number of Columbians – Capt. Lamont and Lt Dupont, the only two officers who knew the pick-up rendezvous, were killed! That son-of-a-bitch Yankee Lt Peterson got wind of the money and contacted Col Smith. Peterson took off yesterday, taking a CT operator with him – the money was loaded onto mules. I reckon he’s looking for a suitable site for a chopper to land and take the money back to Washington!’
‘Ely – that money means a lot to the South and our candidate for the White House. Now hear this – find the money. Where was Lt Peterson heading?’
‘South, Sir – into the Matto Grosso.’
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bsp; ‘Hell fire! The Matto Grosso is an area of thousands of square miles of jungle.’ the General exclaims. ‘The money could be lost forever!’
‘Don’t worry, Sir – Lt Peterson has three of our men with him.’
‘Who?’ General Devereux asks.
‘Sergeant Jubel Hogger and the two Hagger boys, Sir.’
‘What!’ replies the General. ‘Those three interbred, sister-kissing morons don’t have a dozen brain cells between them. Holy hog-shit, those three hillbillies have barely gotten used to indoor plumbing – they could never find their way out of Central Park!’
‘They have a Marpari guide, Sir.’ answers Bodeen.
‘How come? I heard the platoon’s regular Marpari tracker vanished.’ replies General Devereux in a surprised tone.
‘Correct, Sir,’ answers Major Bodeen. ‘Luckily another strange Marpari just showed up soon after!’
‘Jesus – hellfire!’ General Devereux exclaims. ‘Tame Marparis don’t just show up in wild indian country. Damn it man!’
‘Don’t worry, General, my boys will be back with the money – they will deal with Lt Peterson.’
‘I want that strange Marpari guide found – you understand? He knows too much. Get this business done quickly, Ely, or I will personally kick your stupid hillbilly arse!’
‘Yes Sir,’ answers Major Bodeen, ‘but what if….?’
The General cuts him short. ‘Ely, “If” is a word I do not favour. If my grandmother had balls she would be my grandfather! I want that money brought back south to my headquarters – no outside witnesses!’ The General hangs up.
Major Ely Bodeen wipes the sweat from his brow and muses, ‘Mother-fucker – as quickly as shit through a goose, eh,’ he repeats. ‘I kinda like it.’
Three days after General Devereux’s phone call to Major Ely Bodeen, five US Special Force soldiers are emerging from a jungle trail onto a sandy riverbank dominated by a large flat rock. Guiding them is a grotesque-looking, naked indian wearing only a penis-sheath! The indian grins constantly, exposing blackened, sharp-filed teeth!