The Big Breach - Index of

The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comback to their magazines and went over to introduce myself to the fatcaptain.Glaring at me through his dark glasses as I approached, he bristledwith animosity. The Germans must have had a few slanging matches withhim and perhaps he expected trouble from me. `Attendez-l…,' he snapped,indicating me to go back and wait with the other motorcyclists.I didn't protest, but in my bad French asked how long I should prepareto wait. His anger abated as he realised that I was not seeking aconfrontation. Approaching a bit closer, I noticed that he wore Frencharmy parachute wings on the breast pocket of his shirt. `Ah, vous ˆtesparachutiste,' I said, affecting a tone of respect.His anger subsided like a spoilt child presented with a lolly. He drewhimself to attention, puffed out his chest and proudly announced, `I amthe most experienced parachutist in the Niger army,' and told me thealarming stories of his eight jumps.The simple piece of childish flattery was enough. After half an hour,the captain stamped my passport and waved me through. Riding awaysouthwards, in the one wing-mirror that remained intact, I could seethe Germans remonstrating angrily with the captain that he had let methrough before them.Stopping a few days later in Agades, the first town on the southernside of the Sahara, I was drinking a beer at a small outdoor bar whenanother motorcyclist approached. His front wheel was buckled and theforks badly twisted, so the bike lolloped like an old horse. Hedismounted painfully, dropped the bike on the ground rather thanputting it on its sidestand, came into the bar and ordered a largebeer. He turned out to be an orange-packer from Mallorca called Pedroand over our beers we laughed at our various crashes. He spoke noFrench, so the next day I translated while the local blacksmithstraightened out his bike, then we rode together down to Lom‚, the mainport and capital of Togo. There my trip was over and I put my batteredbike on a Sabena cargo plane back to Europe, but Pedro continued histour of West Africa. A few years later I visited him in Mallorca, andhe told me what happened next. Whilst waiting on his bike at sometraffic-lights in the lawless town of Libreville in Sierra Leone, twomen had pulled him down and robbed him. Gratuitously, one had alsobitten him hard on the cheek, leaving not only a vicious scar but alsoinfecting him with the HIV virus.I arrived back from the Sahara just in time to go on a NATO-organisedLRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) exercise in Belgium. All NATOcountries were invited to send their LRRP troops to the exercise: therewere American Rangers, German Fernsp„htruppen, Danish Jaeger troops, areconnaissance troop from the French Foreign Legion, Spanish specialforces bizarrely carrying umbrellas as part of their field kit, Greekspecial forces with bright green camouflage cream applied like aclown's mask, unhappy-looking Dutch conscript special forces,Portuguese, Canadians and Turks. We were there as the Britishrepresentatives. Ian, a former Royal Tank Regiment sergeant was our PC(Patrol Commander). Mac, a scouser, was lead scout and Jock, with abarely comprehensible Scottish highland accent was the fourth member ofour patrol. Ian appointed me signaller, meaning I would have to carrypage- 20 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com