Like all members of the regiment, Shields had overcome every trial his instructors had thrown his way and accumulated an impressive operational record. But he was not at all like Hogg. The major's natural habitat was an office, sorting through the staff actions and routine paperwork that the Ministry of Defense and the Army took great pride in using to measure the abilities of the "less gifted" officers. For Hogg, having a superior like Shields was a blessing, for the major knew talent when he saw it and knew how to use it. He gave Hogg free rein when it came to operations and training and took on the task of keeping the paperwork beast at bay. Only on occasion, when he sensed that some of Patrick Hogg's techniques or his NCO's were getting, as Shields put it, "a bit rambunctious," did he intervene. And even then, the SAS major made his point by offering "suggestions" instead of directives.
Hogg decided to take the initiative rather than let his superior wander about on his way toward the reason for the unexpected visit to the field. "1 take it you're here to talk to me about my pending request."
"MOD is after me again about you, Patrick," Shields stated. "They are not thrilled about your pending resignation. They think it's a mistake."
Hogg looked into Shields's eyes for a second. "And what do you think?"
The major didn't hesitate. "I agree." Lifting his cup, he waved it in the direction of McPherson and the two candidates, who were now on their feet. "I don't think that firm in London you're looking at is going to let you manage its personnel like you're used to doing."
Though Shields meant it as a joke, Hogg didn't respond, instead, after taking a long sip of tea, he looked away. "I'm honored that the lads at MOD think so highly of me. But you know I can't stay in."
"You're making a mistake, Patrick," Shields responded, with a frustration in his voice that he made no effort to hide. "Listen, I know what you're going through. God knows there has been many a day when I've asked myself why in hell I put up with all the crap the Army serves up. But you and I, Patrick, we're soldiers. While either one of us could walk into any company in the UK tomorrow and land a top job with an income that would put our Army pay to shame, we'd die. It's that simple. We need the Army just as much as it needs us. Maybe more."
"And Jenny?" Hogg asked in a quiet, almost plaintive, voice. "What about her?"
Though he was normally able to control his emotions, Shields let his anger break through the calm, businesslike demeanor that was his hallmark. "Damn it, Patrick! You know she'll never be happy with anything you do. I've seen this sort of thing too many times before. Though Jenny's a lovely girl, she doesn't appreciate who you are, or what you're doing. You're a bloody damned fool if you think leaving the regiment is going to make things right between the two of you."
If Shields had expected Hogg to respond in kind to his outburst, he was sadly disappointed. Instead, the SAS captain turned to his superior and looked into his eyes with a mournful expression. "But I love her."
This simple display of sincere emotion, so rare between two men such as Shields and Hogg, took the venom out of the major's argument. Instead, he placed his hand on Hogg's shoulder. "Look, Patrick," he said in a fatherly tone, "I don't doubt that you do. But these two loves of yours, Jenny and the SAS, are tearing you apart. Eventually something's got to give. I just don't want to see you getting hurt."
The first response that popped into Hogg's mind was to come back that he, Shields, didn't want it to go on his record that he had lost the services of one of the regiment's rising stars. But he thought better. There was no point in pissing all over your superior officer's boots when the issue didn't demand it. Besides, Hogg thought to himself, Shields really did care for him as a person and not just as a subordinate.
Forcing a weak smile, Hogg shook his head. "Look, now that this lot has been run through the mill, I'd like to take some leave. There're a couple of firms in London that have been badgering me to come down there for interviews. I thought that perhaps I'd take Jenny with me. While we're there, I'll have some time to talk to her."
This brought a smile to Shields's face. "Splendid! It so happens," he added, "you have quite a bit of leave stored up. Perhaps after you've finished in London, you could head over to Derry and spend some time with the family, away from all of this."
Though it was a well-meaning suggestion, Hogg knew that such a trip would be impossible. If anything, it would make matters worse. When Hogg had mentioned he was thinking about leaving the Army, his father had exploded. The Hoggs had a long tradition of serving both king and country. The elder Hogg had been the regimental sergeant major of the same regiment Patrick had belonged to before joining the SAS. And his only uncle had been killed in the line of duly by the IRA while a member of the Ulster Constabulary during "The Troubles." No. Hogg thought. lenny would be enough to deal with.
"London will do." Hogg said, finally venturing to break the awkward silence and appease Major Shields, "lenny's never spent any veal time there. Who knows." the sad SAS captain said jokingly as he lilted up his battered cup in a mock toast, "perhaps I won't need to do much talking to convince her that the big city isn't for us."
Satisfied that the major issue of the day had been put to rest. Shields turned to the discussion of operational matters and an upcoming inspection by the Prince of Wales. Neither man look note of the lorry pulling out of the line of parked vehicles. None ol' the SAS cadre or any of the administrative personnel supporting them look the time to say farewell to Corporal John |ones of the Welsh Guard and his bedraggled companions who filled the back of the nondescript Army lorry. That, alter all. was not how things were done in the SAS. There simply wasn't time or energy to spare for those who could not keep up.
Selection for membership in an elite organization is not an end to a soldier's trials. In many ways, it's simply the beginning. For once a soldier is awarded the cherished symbol of that unit, whether it be a beret or a badge, he accepts the responsibility of maintaining the heritage that those who went before him recorded with their own blood.
For Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski, this was normally not a problem. Like most young Poles, he had been conscripted into the Army as soon as he came of military age. Unlike many of his peers, he thrived as a soldier. Even before he finished the rudimentary training that passed as basic in the Polish Army, he knew that he had found his calling. But it was a discovery tempered by the restrictive nature of Polish society and its institutions during the waning days of communism. Certain only that he would never be afforded an opportunity to test his newfound vocation if he remained in his native land, Dombrowski fled his chaotic country and headed to the one place where thousands of expatriates had gone for generations in search of adventure and a career as a soldier. At the young age of twenty, Stanislaus Dombrowski became a member of France's Legion Etrangere.
Once in the Legion, Dombrowski concluded that he would never be content with merely earning the kepi blanc, or white kepi, that was as much a symbol of the Legion as the Green Beret was to the American Special Forces. Quickly bored by routine and ever anxious to prove to his fellow legionnaires that he was as tough as the next man, Dombrowski first earned his parachutist wings, then fought for the right to become a member of les Commandos de Recherche et d'Action dans le Profondeur, or the parachute regiment's commando team.
Known by an unfortunate acronym, these CRAP teams were the elite of the elite. Each CRAP team consisted of twenty-five officers and NCO's, divided into two ten-man subteams and a five-man command group. Trained to work with other units of the parachute regiment or alone, the CRAP teams were France's jack-of-all-trades. When operating as part of their parent regiment during large-scale conventional operations, they served as pathfinders and performed recon. More often than not, they were employed as commandos. As such, they could be used offensively to destroy enemy installations, covertly to gather intelligence in a hostile environment, or be dispatched to locate, safeguard, and evacuate French citizens abroad who found themselves in trouble. While each member of a CRAP team became a specialist in one area, all needed to master skills essential to the team, including combat first aid, demolitions, hand-to-hand combat, individual and crew-served weapons, communications, automotive mechanics, and the art of gathering combat intelligence. Dombrowksi's particular expertise was demolitions.