Free Red Notice by Andy McNab Page A

normally used for kids’ parties. A crowd of men had already gathered around it, claiming the best vantage-points, and there were cheers and a few jeers as Tom came in.
    The draw for who fought whom had been made four days ago. There were two general teams: the officers’ mess versus the sergeants’ mess. Anyone could put their name down, and if there weren’t enough takers the CO and the RSM would nominate volunteers. They had the right to choose because they also had to fight, along with each of the four Sabre Squadron commanders. Their job was to lead from the front.
    Fight Nights were more than a social event: they were an important part of producing good soldiers. Of course the men had to be aggressive, and all of them were or they wouldn’t have passed Selection. But there was more to it than that. They were bonding exercises between the two management groups of the Regiment.
    The officers would normally serve a three-year tour beforereturning to their parent unit and might go back for one more tour. The continuity of the Regiment lay with the sergeants and warrant officers. As with any infantry battalion, they held the experience of the unit.
    Many things happened in an army that civilians like Delphine could not understand. On the face of it, Fight Nights looked dangerous or stupid and immature, but they had evolved over many years and always had a rationale. They built respect through shared physical pain and endurance. Maybe that was why Tom always put himself up for it, or maybe he just liked to fight. Maybe it was both. He could never work it out, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that did was that he was stepping up to the plate, not letting anyone down, including himself. Even if, tonight, he was going into the ring to lose.
    Almost every man had a stack of cans of beer near at hand, and the air was already heavy with alcohol fumes. A warrant officer was sitting at the table on the far side of the room, in front of a whiteboard with a marker dangling from it on a piece of string. Tom and Ashton, his squadron commander, were up first.
    ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, Lenny,’ Tom said, slapping his money on the table.
    Bryce was right behind him. 'I won’t be going home empty-handed.’ He pulled his T-shirt over his head, flexed his pecs and pointed to the names of his six kids tattooed on his chest. ‘My babies need new shoes.’
    ‘You’d be better off spending your winnings on getting the snip, mate, and doing humanity a favour.’ Keenan wasn’t fighting. He never did, not wanting to lose his beach-bum good looks. ‘And just think of the money you’d save on nappies.’
    ‘And tattoos,’ Jockey said, as he strolled over to join them.
    Bryce was still shuddering at the thought of a vasectomy and had covered his groin with his hands. ‘I’ll never have the snip,’ he said. ‘Even if we have sixty kids. Every sperm is sacred to me – and the missus. And I don’t mind admitting thatthere’s one thing that scares me shitless. I tell you now, I’d rather play Russian roulette with a revolver with no empty chambers than let someone loose on my balls with a scalpel.’
    ‘Haven’t you heard, Bryce?’ Keenan opened his arms wide and slapped his hands together. ‘They do it with two bricks these days.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bryce had heard it all before. ‘I know. Does it hurt? Only if you get your thumbs trapped. Jesus, Keenan, I know Cornwall’s fucking backward, but you’d think there’d be a few jokes going around there that were less than a hundred years old.’ He glanced over to the doorway and broke into a broad smile. ‘Look out, it’s show time. Here come the Ruperts.’
    Led by Ashton, a group of officers walked in as the soundtrack from Rocky burst out of the wall speakers. The guests were greeted by a rousing chorus of boos. The NCOs pelted them with empty beer cans, but Ashton and the others ducked and dodged them as they headed for the bouncy castle. Last year