First Into Action by Duncan Falconer Page A

and told you to get going. There was no encouragement. Quite the reverse was true. The DS were always inviting individuals to wrap. And if a person quit, no one would tell him off. There would be no punishment. The reason was simple. In special forces you had to be self-motivated to the point of self-destruction, but not quite kamikaze either – the training was focused on getting operatives out after a job as much as it was getting them in to do it.
    You could tell when a man was losing control of his pain. There are signs. Shortened breath and darting eyes, or eyes that blink quickly as if trying to focus. Or no reaction to anything, even when asked a question, or looking as if he would walk off a cliff if one appeared in front of him. Another was to move out of character, to suddenly become talkative but in a hyperactive way, asking how far you thought it was and how much longer it could last. An indication that the end is close is a sudden spurt of effort that cannot possibly last. The worst scene is once a man has severely cracked and wrapped, when he curls up and sobs uncontrollably, out of either guilt or self-pity, because his limit has been exposed, not only to others but to himself. Most men give in before those stages are reached. I had seen it all since I arrived in Deal, and I found it curious. Watching someone you know crack up is like watching a deformed person walking towards you. It’s uncomfortable and impolite to stare.
    It was completely dark an hour later and we were heading up a steep, painful incline when the beast-master paused once again. We leant heavily on to our knees, watching him through our eyebrows, waiting while the stragglers caught up. I had stopped sweating a long time back and was thirsty. I had a water-bottle and had drunk most of its contents, but I was saving the last few mouthfuls. You always did that. If you emptied your last drops when you did not know when your next resup would be it was the beginning of the end in a way – a mental gauge to yourself. Mister Nasty shone a torch in each of our faces, searching for those signs he also knew so well.
    ‘There is no truck,’ he said and let the words sink in.
    ‘Ten miles further on is a pub. If you get there before last orders you can have a pint. If you’re not there by closing time you’re off the course.’
    I was trying to calculate my time and distance. We had about three hours. Four miles an hour was normal walking pace. I could do it, in theory, if I was completely fresh. But in my present condition and with this ridiculous weight hanging off my arse I would have to say no way.
    ‘Those who don’t want to go on can wait here and transport will come and pick you up in the morning. You can get into your sleeping bags and keep warm. Make yourself a nice cup of tea and get your heads down.’
    He made it sound like a great idea.
    ‘Otherwise, get going.’
    I stayed bent forward for a moment, taking a few seconds more of a breather before gathering myself to push on. As I pushed my hands off my knees and pulled down on my rope to move on there was a thud behind me. Someone had let his load fall off his shoulders.
    ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ the Marine said as he plonked down to sit tiredly on his pack.
    When someone quits, it often has a ripple effect, especially if others are close to cracking. All it needs is someone to set it off. It happened just like that. Several other packs hit the road.
    ‘I don’t need this crap,’ another said.
    Mister Nasty had a glint in his eye and looked at the rest of us, inviting more to quit. His appetite was just getting whetted.
    Another pack went down. It looked like Mister Nasty might hit the jackpot.
    I think Jakers was the first to move off. The rest of us shuffled off too as another pack dropped behind me. We left six men behind with their packs at their heels, watching us walk away.
    I would do the next ten fucking miles if that was what they wanted. We looked like a