surreptitiously cover the ashtray in the sink with a plate as I rinse a pair of cups. I ask where he’s driven from this morning.
‘Hereford.’ That figures. Hereford is home to the Regimental HQ of 22 SAS.
I’m about to ask whether he lives there, but he answers first.
‘Settled down after I left the Regiment ten years ago, give or take.’
‘Marry a local girl?’
‘The whole nine yards. Wife, kids, cats, dogs.’
‘What have you been doing since?’
‘The security and protection circuit – rigs and pipelines, mostly. Some BGing once in a while. Sorry – bodyguarding. And the occasional special request.’
‘Isn’t it all a bit dull after the SAS?’
‘Better than sitting around in a damp hole all day.’
This is modest, coming from a member of the most elite special forces regiment in the world.
‘There’s a company that helps the blokes who want to stay active – the ones who don’t become postmen, mostly.’
‘Remind me not to tangle with the postman.’ I sit down opposite him and pour the coffee. His eyes fall on the dark red and blue bands of my watchstrap.
‘Regimental flash?’
‘Scots Guards.’
‘Alright for some.’ He grins. ‘When did you pack it in?
‘After the Gulf. Granby, wasn’t it? Stupid name for a war,’ I say. I know that military code names are chosen by computer and run alphabetically, but still.
‘Stupid war, if you think about it.’ He blows thoughtfully on his coffee. I like his irreverence.
‘Regiment did well out of it,’ I say.
‘The usual balls-up,’ he says, dismissing this. ‘Typical Regiment story. A lot of guys spread out all over the world in different theatres, and then up comes a deployment like the Gulf.’ His fingers trace a phantom squadron gathering across the tabletop. ‘All of a sudden every one of them wants a piece of the action, and a lot of jostling goes on. You get guys who’ve been training for something else doing the wrong job, and the right guys getting bumped down the line.’
‘What did London tell you?’ I ask.
‘I only get a phone call from the liaison officer with the where and when. Sounds like they’re going to leave the details to us. We’ve got a month. Should be plenty of time.’
This is a very low-key approach, and unlike anything I’ve encountered in the military. I also find it hard to reconcile the softly spoken almost boyish manner of the man in front of me with the more sensational tales told popularly about the Regiment.
‘I don’t suppose you were on the balcony at Prince’s Gate, were you?’ I’m joking, but every soldier knows how many thousands of men have claimed they were part of the spectacular hostage rescue at the Iranian embassy in London twenty years earlier.
‘No, not on the balcony,’ he says in a thoughtful tone. ‘Anyway, the blokes on the balcony were only there for the TV cameras.’
Good answer. I ask how long he’s been in the Regiment.
‘I’m a twenty-fourer.’ He chuckles. ‘Boy soldier.’ He’s served in every major theatre where the SAS has deployed. Aden, Borneo, Oman, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, Iraq, Bosnia and, between training some other military units in far-off places and what he calls ‘extra-curricular stuff’, a dozen other countries.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t thought of a literary career,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t it your CO who started the trend?’
He shrugs cynically. ‘DLB was a good soldier. Anyway, it’s his memoirs they’ll be reading in ten years, not the other bloke’s.’
He’s loyal too, I’m thinking to myself, to his former Regimental commanding officer, Peter de la Billiere. By the sound of it he doesn’t care much for the celebrity authors the Regiment has also produced over the past few years. Then I remember what Seethrough told me the day before.
‘What’s a Mirbat vet?’ I ask.
‘I am, for starters,’ he says.
‘Then what’s a Mirbat?’
‘Mirbat? That’s the name of the town. On the Omani
‘Hereford.’ That figures. Hereford is home to the Regimental HQ of 22 SAS.
I’m about to ask whether he lives there, but he answers first.
‘Settled down after I left the Regiment ten years ago, give or take.’
‘Marry a local girl?’
‘The whole nine yards. Wife, kids, cats, dogs.’
‘What have you been doing since?’
‘The security and protection circuit – rigs and pipelines, mostly. Some BGing once in a while. Sorry – bodyguarding. And the occasional special request.’
‘Isn’t it all a bit dull after the SAS?’
‘Better than sitting around in a damp hole all day.’
This is modest, coming from a member of the most elite special forces regiment in the world.
‘There’s a company that helps the blokes who want to stay active – the ones who don’t become postmen, mostly.’
‘Remind me not to tangle with the postman.’ I sit down opposite him and pour the coffee. His eyes fall on the dark red and blue bands of my watchstrap.
‘Regimental flash?’
‘Scots Guards.’
‘Alright for some.’ He grins. ‘When did you pack it in?
‘After the Gulf. Granby, wasn’t it? Stupid name for a war,’ I say. I know that military code names are chosen by computer and run alphabetically, but still.
‘Stupid war, if you think about it.’ He blows thoughtfully on his coffee. I like his irreverence.
‘Regiment did well out of it,’ I say.
‘The usual balls-up,’ he says, dismissing this. ‘Typical Regiment story. A lot of guys spread out all over the world in different theatres, and then up comes a deployment like the Gulf.’ His fingers trace a phantom squadron gathering across the tabletop. ‘All of a sudden every one of them wants a piece of the action, and a lot of jostling goes on. You get guys who’ve been training for something else doing the wrong job, and the right guys getting bumped down the line.’
‘What did London tell you?’ I ask.
‘I only get a phone call from the liaison officer with the where and when. Sounds like they’re going to leave the details to us. We’ve got a month. Should be plenty of time.’
This is a very low-key approach, and unlike anything I’ve encountered in the military. I also find it hard to reconcile the softly spoken almost boyish manner of the man in front of me with the more sensational tales told popularly about the Regiment.
‘I don’t suppose you were on the balcony at Prince’s Gate, were you?’ I’m joking, but every soldier knows how many thousands of men have claimed they were part of the spectacular hostage rescue at the Iranian embassy in London twenty years earlier.
‘No, not on the balcony,’ he says in a thoughtful tone. ‘Anyway, the blokes on the balcony were only there for the TV cameras.’
Good answer. I ask how long he’s been in the Regiment.
‘I’m a twenty-fourer.’ He chuckles. ‘Boy soldier.’ He’s served in every major theatre where the SAS has deployed. Aden, Borneo, Oman, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, Iraq, Bosnia and, between training some other military units in far-off places and what he calls ‘extra-curricular stuff’, a dozen other countries.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t thought of a literary career,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t it your CO who started the trend?’
He shrugs cynically. ‘DLB was a good soldier. Anyway, it’s his memoirs they’ll be reading in ten years, not the other bloke’s.’
He’s loyal too, I’m thinking to myself, to his former Regimental commanding officer, Peter de la Billiere. By the sound of it he doesn’t care much for the celebrity authors the Regiment has also produced over the past few years. Then I remember what Seethrough told me the day before.
‘What’s a Mirbat vet?’ I ask.
‘I am, for starters,’ he says.
‘Then what’s a Mirbat?’
‘Mirbat? That’s the name of the town. On the Omani
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