Operation Lavivrus. John Wiseman

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СКАЧАТЬ representing his school and South-East London. He had dabbled in judo, karate and ninjitsu, but they had all left him wanting. They were non-contact sports and not very practical in a real-life situation. They did teach him timing and balance, both invaluable skills, and the mental side was very fulfilling. But CQB, as taught by Jim, satisfied his appetite. It was a distillation of all the martial arts, picking out the best from each and choreographing them in a series of lethal moves that were both practical and uncomplicated. Jim used everything that was banned in these arts. CQB was a military skill that encouraged fighting dirty. It was kill or be killed. Punching below the belt, kicks to the throat and head were all encouraged. Tony was blessed with the street-fighter’s instinct that no amount of training can instil. This was summed up by his father’s words when he coached him: ’You can put the dog in a fight, but you can’t put the fight in a dog.’

      It’s a rarity to find a man who has power, speed, timing and balance, and with the street-fighter’s instinct they add up top a very special human being. Tony loved the training and tried to improve. He was never satisfied.

      Jim launched a series of attacks on Tony with lightning speed. He attacked from all angles, going for the eyes, palm strike to the chin, elbow to the throat; the pace was furious. A swift kick to the groin was deflected and taken on the thigh, followed by a swinging right hand to the jaw. When a blow landed or was blocked, a shower of sweat cascaded from the victim, showering the watchful bystanders. Jim’s attacks were fast, but Tony defended himself with equal skill.

      After the demonstration the class partnered off, going through a vigorous sparring session. They took it in turns to attack and defend, changing partners frequently so as not to grow used to their opponent. Jim and Tony went around giving advice and correcting techniques.

      The lads loved it, especially when a blow landed. It was not so funny for the victim, but hilarious to onlookers. Frequently they were called to watch a new technique, and then they would partner up again to try it. Each move had to be instinctive, and the only way to instil this is repetitions. Unless this is carefully managed there is a danger of boredom creeping in, but this never happened with Jim. He knew when to move on, always getting the best from the class.

      There was nothing fancy about the techniques. No sophisticated locks, holds or throws were taught, just straightforward attacks to the eyes, throat and groin area. Every now and then a scream would confirm the effectiveness of an attack, forcing Jim to smile. ‘Don’t kill each other. Save that for the enemy. Keep the power for the bags. I’m looking for speed and technique when sparring.’

      To generate power they used focus pads and punch bags, taking it in turns to hold these for each other. Even wearing headguards and groin protectors the odd blow got through, but unlike footballers who lay on the ground writhing in fake agony the lads carried on, trying not to show that their opponent had hurt them. Minor scores were settled, and sometimes Jim had to step in and defuse the situation.

      Thriving on success, and despising failure, every member of the regiment wanted to be a winner. Like every subject, success had to be taught; it had to become a way of life. The best classroom for this was the gym. Courage and determination were matured here; winners were groomed and their resolve nourished. However, the gym was no substitute for the rugged terrain of the Brecon Beacons, where stamina was forged and the elements conquered.

      Tony was sparring with Peter, taking great delight in occasionally snapping his head back with a light palm strike to the forehead. Every time Peter lowered his guard or stopped moving he got slapped. This spurred him on to greater efforts to land a telling blow, but Tony dealt with these attacks with apparent ease. This further frustrated Peter, causing him to become ragged and predictable. Tony could sense this but couldn’t help grinning, moving fluidly in and out, countering with stinging blows to the head and body. Frustration turned to humiliation as accurate strikes became more frequent. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down Peter’s chin from a split lip, and a small nick over his left eye was further aggravated by the generous amount of sweat flowing from his forehead. He did his best to hide his discomfort, however, aware that the troop was watching his performance.

      Even though they were comrades, the rivalry between them surfaced. All the petty hates, differences and jealousies between officer and NCO emerged, and pride distorted reason. Peter missed Tony with a massive roundhouse punch that would have taken his head off had it landed. He got a dig in the midsection for his effort, and a kick found his knee, just as he was about to try the same.

      ‘I’m going to kill the bastard,’ thought Peter; just seeing his opponent’s grinning face through red-misted eyes was reason enough. Bigger punches and kicks followed, but all had the same result.

      Tony could sense the hostility, which disturbed him, so he back-pedalled to defuse the situation. Peter took this as a sign of weakness and renewed his attacks with added venom. A wild blow glanced off Tony’s head, triggering a short jab that flew before he could check himself. The wicked punch caught Peter on his injured eye, which split open immediately, spurting bright red blood down his face in a scarlet torrent.

      Tony dropped his guard instantly, moving in to offer assistance. Peter snapped and drove his knee between Tony’s legs with the last of his energy and pent-up emotions. This dropped Tony to his knees like a shot elephant, folded in half and clutching the source of excruciating agony. His head was full of nauseous lights and his mouth thick with bile.

      Jim had been watching this pair with interest, half expecting the outcome. He had let them carry on; it’s best sometimes to let things run their course. He went up to Tony, who was thrashing about on his knees like a fish out of water, grabbed his head and forced it down. The class stated to gather around the injured pair till Jim shouted, ‘What do you think this is, a peep show? Get back to work.’ In a softer voice he continued, ‘Stay on your knees, Tony. Force the air out.’ He looked over to Peter, who was pinching together the edges of his cut eye.

      ‘Here, boss, use this,’ he said, and threw him a clean white handkerchief that he had in his pocket. ‘Charlie, Fred, come and give a hand,’ he summoned the nearest couple. ‘Take the boss to the MI room, and you can help me with Tony.’

      Between them they got Tony to his feet. His face was contorted with pain and he was forced to breathe through clenched lips. He had attempted to spit the bitter taste out of his mouth but only succeeded in dribbling it down his chest. A silver thread of spittle was still hanging from his lip. Jim supported him from behind, with his massive arms wrapped around his chest.

      ‘I’ve lost one of my nuts,’ muttered Tony. At this Jim held him tight, and with Charlie helping, dropped to a kneeling position. ‘Tell me when it drops’, he said, and he bounced Tony up and down on his buttocks. He had done this many times before, and Tony knew the routine; they called it ‘Testes Absentus’. It was their term for a testicle that goes up into the groin cavity. Some sumo wrestlers would do this deliberately before a contest, but to the uninitiated it is a very painful experience.

      Eventually Tony got to his feet, supported by Jim, who was pressing his thumbs firmly into his abdomen trying to alleviate the burning, sickly pain.

      ‘Thanks, mate. I’d better go and see how the boss is,’ and Tony headed gingerly to the MI room.

      Peter had four stitches, and Tony recovered apart from a slight headache and a loss of appetite. Most of the troop sported a bruise or welt of various sizes and colours, which they carried with pride. These were marks of the warrior; it went with the job.

      After a shower and a late breakfast, the troop assembled at the armoury to draw out their personal weapons. Tony complimented his boss for the cheap shot and apologised for the cut.

      They retired to the Troop Basha (billet), where they stripped and cleaned their weapons. While they were СКАЧАТЬ