Directing Staff,’ said Liam.
‘When’s he never not moaning?’ said Geordie. ‘A couple of the trainers are pretty canny, mind,’ he said. ‘Lofty’s good and so’s Taff.’
‘Yeah, they’re good, though no one could ever accuse them of being imaginative in their choice of nicknames, eh Geordie?’ Shepherd.
‘You don’t get to choose your nickname, you know that,’ said Geordie. ‘We’re still working on yours. ‘How about Sheepish?’ He was the same age as Shepherd - twenty-two - but a good bit taller than the typical SAS man. Shorter, stockier men tended to have greater powers of endurance and, since the ability to carry a monstrously heavy bergen over long distances at a ridiculously fast pace was one of the many things that set SAS men apart from the rest, most of them were no more than five foot nine.
‘God, I’m starving,’ Liam said. He claimed to have a metabolism that made it necessary for him to eat every two hours or keel over, and his principal hobby seemed to be searching for food. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s got some spare scran squirreled away?’ he said, more in hope than expectation. ‘I’m that hungry I could even eat my mother’s cooking.’
‘Her cooking’s not that bad, is it?’ Jimbo said.
‘Come to lunch when we’re home then, if you’re brave enough,’ said Liam. ‘We try to have takeaways whenever we can.’ He broke off as he caught sight of an older-looking soldier standing in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. ‘Where the hell did that guy come from?’
There had been no sound or visible movement, but the man now stood there, watching and listening, his posture upright and alert, the barrel of his weapon tracking the path of his gaze. Satisfied, he lowered his weapon and stepped into the open. He was hard-muscled, but lean and whippet-thin, and his skin was pale enough to suggest that he had seen little sunlight in quite some time. His green uniform was almost black with the sweat and humidity caused by the long hard march he had made through the jungle.
He walked across the clearing, pausing to shake hands and exchange a couple of words with two of the trainers, Lofty and Taff, but pointedly ignoring the others. He walked on, found a space away from everyone else and, without cutting any foliage, put up a very spartan basha: a waterproof sheet and a hammock. Ignoring everyone, he then spent the remaining hours of daylight studying his maps. He was alone, self contained and apparently completely at home in the jungle environment.
As night was falling, Shepherd went across to Lofty’s basha. ‘Who is that guy?’ he said., gesturing towards the new arrival.
Lofty smiled. ‘His nickname’s Pilgrim.’
‘Pilgrim? That doesn’t sound like a typical regimental nickname.’
‘It isn’t. It’s more of a mark of respect. The very last thing you’ll have to do before you complete the final stage of Selection is to memorise part of a James Elroy Flecker poem called “The Golden Journey to Samarkand”. It’s our creed, if you like:
“But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty bearded, blocking up the way?”
“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea.”
‘There’s more of it, but you get the drift: we are the Pilgrims. There are only two ways to get the experience you need in the Regiment: one is to serve long enough to do everything, and the other is to learn at the feet of a master. Most of the highly skilled guys in the Regiment learned their tradecraft from a senior mentor.’
‘Got you,’ Shepherd said. ‘So Pilgrim’s a mentor - one of the “old and bold” - but what’s he doing here?’
‘You’ll find out tomorrow,’ Lofty said. ‘Meanwhile get some shut-eye, you’ll need it.’
The following morning, as Shepherd, Liam, Geordie and Jimbo were sorting their kit, ready to join
‘When’s he never not moaning?’ said Geordie. ‘A couple of the trainers are pretty canny, mind,’ he said. ‘Lofty’s good and so’s Taff.’
‘Yeah, they’re good, though no one could ever accuse them of being imaginative in their choice of nicknames, eh Geordie?’ Shepherd.
‘You don’t get to choose your nickname, you know that,’ said Geordie. ‘We’re still working on yours. ‘How about Sheepish?’ He was the same age as Shepherd - twenty-two - but a good bit taller than the typical SAS man. Shorter, stockier men tended to have greater powers of endurance and, since the ability to carry a monstrously heavy bergen over long distances at a ridiculously fast pace was one of the many things that set SAS men apart from the rest, most of them were no more than five foot nine.
‘God, I’m starving,’ Liam said. He claimed to have a metabolism that made it necessary for him to eat every two hours or keel over, and his principal hobby seemed to be searching for food. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s got some spare scran squirreled away?’ he said, more in hope than expectation. ‘I’m that hungry I could even eat my mother’s cooking.’
‘Her cooking’s not that bad, is it?’ Jimbo said.
‘Come to lunch when we’re home then, if you’re brave enough,’ said Liam. ‘We try to have takeaways whenever we can.’ He broke off as he caught sight of an older-looking soldier standing in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. ‘Where the hell did that guy come from?’
There had been no sound or visible movement, but the man now stood there, watching and listening, his posture upright and alert, the barrel of his weapon tracking the path of his gaze. Satisfied, he lowered his weapon and stepped into the open. He was hard-muscled, but lean and whippet-thin, and his skin was pale enough to suggest that he had seen little sunlight in quite some time. His green uniform was almost black with the sweat and humidity caused by the long hard march he had made through the jungle.
He walked across the clearing, pausing to shake hands and exchange a couple of words with two of the trainers, Lofty and Taff, but pointedly ignoring the others. He walked on, found a space away from everyone else and, without cutting any foliage, put up a very spartan basha: a waterproof sheet and a hammock. Ignoring everyone, he then spent the remaining hours of daylight studying his maps. He was alone, self contained and apparently completely at home in the jungle environment.
As night was falling, Shepherd went across to Lofty’s basha. ‘Who is that guy?’ he said., gesturing towards the new arrival.
Lofty smiled. ‘His nickname’s Pilgrim.’
‘Pilgrim? That doesn’t sound like a typical regimental nickname.’
‘It isn’t. It’s more of a mark of respect. The very last thing you’ll have to do before you complete the final stage of Selection is to memorise part of a James Elroy Flecker poem called “The Golden Journey to Samarkand”. It’s our creed, if you like:
“But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty bearded, blocking up the way?”
“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea.”
‘There’s more of it, but you get the drift: we are the Pilgrims. There are only two ways to get the experience you need in the Regiment: one is to serve long enough to do everything, and the other is to learn at the feet of a master. Most of the highly skilled guys in the Regiment learned their tradecraft from a senior mentor.’
‘Got you,’ Shepherd said. ‘So Pilgrim’s a mentor - one of the “old and bold” - but what’s he doing here?’
‘You’ll find out tomorrow,’ Lofty said. ‘Meanwhile get some shut-eye, you’ll need it.’
The following morning, as Shepherd, Liam, Geordie and Jimbo were sorting their kit, ready to join
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