Dead Hand

Chapter 1

Unable to ignore the leg cramps that were reducing his pace to a painful limp, the solitary Welsh guardsman came to a complete stop. Like a hunted animal in distress, his eyes frantically darted about the bleak Scottish landscape in a desperate search for a spot where he could hide. He had to find a concealed nook, a place that afforded him sanctuary. He badly needed to collect his thought, catch his breath, and sort himself out.

Nothing, however, seemed to fit the bill. Rather than offering safety, every rock outcropping and fold in the earth his eyes fell upon appeared ominous and foreboding, an ideal haven for his pursuers. Dejected, the Welshman drew in a deep breath before setting off again as quickly as his sore muscles would permit.

In the process of covering the next hundred or so meters, he noticed the sky becoming lighter. Yet the coming of dawn brought little promise that his agony and suffering would soon be at an end. Instead of a friendly, smiling sun to dry his clothes and warm his spirit, the night gave way to a dull, steel-gray sky crowded with low hanging clouds heavily laden with moisture, which would add to his miseries and suffering. By the time it was clear enough to see the jagged ridgelines on either side of the valley, he was making his way through at a slow, laborious jog. Corporal John Jones's outlook was as bleak as the breaking day.

Placing his hands on his hips and drawing in deep breaths that formed dense, moist clouds when he exhaled. Jones forced himself to press on along the rock-strewn valley floor. With growing regularity. he scanned the barren mountain crest up ahead that stood out against the ugly morning sky. Every so often, he glanced behind. His failure to detect any sign of pursuers, which had been a blessing the night before, began to concern him. His slate of mind, molded by the physical and mental punishment he and his mates had suffered at their hands on previous occasions, had twisted a healthy respect for his foe into a gnawing paranoia that hovered over him every waking hour. By now, he no longer saw the men who were hounding him as being part of the same human race to which he himself belonged. Rather than suffer from the adversities that sapped his strength, Jones fancied that they were growing stronger and more vicious at the very time his own abilities were ebbing. It was, of course, foolish to think like this.

Whether it was the hunger, the cold, or the overpowering exhaustion the likes of which he had never imagined possible, the twenty-three-year-old Welshman was finally coming to the realization that he was fast approaching the end of his rope. It was growing more difficult for him to maintain his pace, his focus, and even worse, his motivation. Panting, he again slowed until the pain in his legs brought him to a complete halt. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the soldiers of the Rifle Brigade, fresh and unaffected by the rigors of the hunt, right there, ready to take advantage of his weakness. Capturing him would yield them a pass and put an end to his dream of becoming a member of the Special Air Service.

When he did not see them, Jones was struck by an odd thought. Rather than feeling relieved that they weren't there, the Welshman found that he was disappointed. He was almost sorry that no one was at hand to bring his suffering to an end. No sooner had that thought popped into his head than it was followed by a horrible realization. He had failed. It was all over. For the first time, he came to appreciate the brutal fact that he simply did not have what it took. Already broken in body, this failure of spirit was the last straw. Psychologically vanquished, he dropped to the ground and sat there, unsure of what to do next.

With his elbows planted on his knees, Jones allowed his head, too heavy for his overtaxed neck muscles to support, to drop down onto his chest. Though he was on the verge of crying, somehow he managed to hold himself together.

Suddenly a new fear sent a shiver down his spine. With a jerk, he threw his head back and frantically scanned the horizon. For a second, he imagined that he could hear the booming of the Welsh Guards' Regimental sergeant major thundering down from the top of a Scottish mountaintop: "Get your filthy ass off the ground, Jones. You're on parade." The sergeant major's voice resounded so convincingly in Jones's mind that he looked up, half-expecting to see the tall, barrel-chested sergeant major standing there, right in front of him, attired in his immaculate scarlet tunic.

But the uncompromising pillar of military correctness and decorum wasn't there. Only moss-covered rocks and brown winter grass stretching as far as he could see through the thick morning mist greeted his eyes. Again allowing his head to drop down, Jones cursed himself for trading in what he had thought was a living hell of shining brass and tedious days of guard duty in London for this. Sitting upright, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his waterlogged battle-dress jacket in a vain search for something to eat. As his fingers rummaged about, he found himself longing for the warm, form-fitting wool tunic that he and his mates likened to straitjackcts.

Jones wasn't paying attention to anything other than his memories of duty in London and the faint hope of finding something he had forgotten about to eat, when a blurred image popped up from out of nowhere. He didn't see the looming apparition for what it was. He didn't need to. Though he was still reeling from the surprise and desperately trying to brace himself for the coming impact, a voice in the back of his mind told him that his ordeal was finally over. Despite his best efforts, despite his determination not to give in to anything, his foes were about to prevail. Everything, from the well-nurtured feeling of paranoia that the antics of his tormentors had instilled in him, to the near-physical collapse to which the entire ordeal had taken him, told him that resistance was futile. Even in those few brief seconds before his body was bowled over into a helpless, twisted heap, John Jones accepted the cruel fact that he had been humbled.

Gnawing on an Army-issue biscuit, the SAS captain looked down at Jones without any feelings of mercy or pity. The man had been an idiot, Patrick Hogg told himself as he bit off a chunk of dry biscuit and slowly moved it about in his mouth until it was moist enough to chew. He entertained no thought of offering the SAS candidate something to eat or drink. Not that the man would have accepted.

Even now, Hogg could see both defiance and loathing in the eyes of Corporal Jones, late of the Welsh Guard, as the hapless man lay on the soggy ground, tightly trusted and neatly gagged.

In the beginning, when he had run his first few groups of prospective SAS candidates through the hell that was his survival course, Hogg hadn't gagged those luckless souls he had personally tracked and subdued. In fact, he had often offered them something to eat. That all stopped one day when one particularly belligerent lad from Liverpool failed to show anything even remotely akin to gratitude. Instead, the bastard had spit the food Hogg had given him in his face and then launched into a tirade of oaths and blasphemies that Hogg felt were uncalled for. The twelve-year veteran of the British Army could have tolerated this. He had, after all, been subjected to far worse from experts. It was when the irate candidate started calling him a has-been, a washout who could no longer pull his weight in a real line unit, that Hogg snapped. Pulling the sweat soaked scarf that he had been wearing around his neck, he had stuffed one end of it as far down the man's throat as he dare and used the rest to bind the gag in place. From that day on, Hogg made sure that he had something particularly nasty and odious in one of his pockets that could serve as a proper gag.

The sound of a helicopter making its way up the narrow valley brought an end to Hogg's silent breakfast. Tossing the half-eaten biscuit so that it came to rest inches in front of his prisoner's eyes, Hogg stood up and turned to face the approaching aircraft. Pulling a smoke grenade from his kit, he gave the pin a solid tug and let the safety spoon fly away. No longer held in place by the flat of the spoon, the cocked hammer was free to swing over and smash into the grenade's primer. But the SAS officer didn't throw the grenade when he heard the snap. Rather, he waited patiently, holding the grenade at arm's length, until the dense yellow smoke began to spew forth from either end of the grenade. Only then did Hogg casually toss it so that both he and his prisoner would be upwind from the billowing yellow cloud.

With an ease that came from countless hours of flying, the pilot sergeant of the helicopter came right up to where Hogg stood and, at the last second, flared out and lightly touched down so that the SAS captain had but a few yards to drag his prisoner to the waiting aircraft. This Hogg did without ceremony, without any apparent regard for the hapless candidate that he had managed to bring to bay.

At the door of the helicopter, Hogg was greeted by a smiling face. "And a fine cheerful morning to you, Captain," the red-haired senior sergeant sitting in the open door shouted above the noise of the chopper's engines.

Hogg gave Sergeant Kenneth McPherson a dirty look. "You know what you can do with your bloody Highland weather," Hogg shouted back as he took Jones and literally heaved the former candidate onto the floor of the helicopter next to McPherson's prisoner.

"I've been to Ireland, you know," McPherson countered. "I've seen that gloom you Paddies pass off as weather. I'm here to tell you, it isn't anything a sane person would be proud of."

For the first time, Hogg smiled as he climbed in and plopped down next to McPherson. "Now there you go, Sergeant," Hogg gloated, "confusing Irishmen with sane people. Next, you'll be telling me that Scottish lads coming of age can differentiate between the sheep they tend and the lasses."

While Hogg gave the pilot the signal to pull pitch, McPherson groaned as he poured Hogg a cup of hot tea the pilot had brought along for the instructors. "You're lucky you're an officer and I'm a proper and respectful noncommissioned officer," he shouted as he handed over the cup. "Otherwise, Captain, I'd be telling you a thing or two."

Hogg looked at the burly Highland sergeant with a genuine affection, one that he felt for all of his cadre. He enjoyed the casualness of the relationships shared by those in the Special Air Service, where rank meant nothing. Patrick Hogg had started, like most of the men in the SAS, in a regular unit. But life as a line officer in the Queen's Own Irish Hussars had been oppressive and confining for him. He needed something more from the Army than the routine of training, maintenance, and administrative duties that consumed an officer's life in peacetime. He had been born to be a member of the SAS. "That, Sergeant McPherson," Hogg finally replied after taking a sip of the wonderfully warm tea, "won't take too long, seeing that your intellectual capacity can handle but two."

"With all due respect, sir," McPherson stated with mock indignation, "bugger off."

The light-hearted banter between sergeant and officer had put Hogg in a better frame of mind by the time they reached the rally point where lorries waited for both candidates and cadre alike. Some lorries would take candidates who had completed the course to their next ordeal, a twenty-four-hour interrogation that was as brutal as military law would permit. Other trucks wailed for those like Jones. He would be taken back to his barracks, where he would be given enough time to pack his kit and clear out before his triumphant companions returned to celebrate the completion of the selection process with a hot shower and a well-deserved sleep.

The usual assorted lot of support personnel was mixed in with the SAS cadre. The truck drivers congregated around the front of their vehicles, finishing off their morning coffee. The mess personnel stood ready behind steaming food pans, doing their best to look as miserable as they felt while spooning out hard-boiled eggs to cadre and support personnel as they wandered in. The medics, as medics do around the world, sat in the cab of their field ambulance, looking bored and praying that nothing happened to break that boredom.

Besides these assorted support personnel, Patrick Hogg noticed his superior when he and Kenneth McPherson hopped off the helicopter. Standing at the end of the mess line, Major Thomas Shields was chatting with several of Hogg's cadre. McPherson, busy giving an SAS sergeant major a hand hauling out the former SAS candidates, didn't notice Shields at first. When he did, he grunted. "God, I hope he's not out here to give us another one of his rousing speeches on the need to maintain the standards of the regiment."

Hogg, who had been looking at Shields and sipping tea from a battered mess cup, shook his head. "I don't think so."

When McPherson noted the circumspect exchange between the two officers, he guessed that there was something up between them. "Captain," McPherson stated in a tone that NCO's use when they are trying to tell an officer what to do, "why don't you run along and tend to business like a good officer and let me sort out these lads."

Taking one last look at Jones, Hogg felt his first pang of sympathy for the corporal of the Welsh Guard. That poor soul, who was returning Hogg's stare with one that could kill, would be going back to rejoin his regiment at best. He'd be humbled by this experience. More than likely, the Welshman would be broken in spirit to the point to where a once-promising career was now all but impossible. While it was a shame that a good soldier such as Jones would be regarded as a failure because he hadn't measured up to the grueling demands the SAS held onto, Hogg knew there was nothing he could do about that. It was his job to sort out those who were merely good and those who had what it took. Without another thought, Patrick Hogg turned his back on the still gagged and bound Welshman and headed over to see what had brought the major out on a morning like this.

When he saw Hogg approaching, Shields excused himself, grabbed another cup of tea, and met Hogg halfway. "If you're after a bit of sun to add some color to your cheeks, you picked a hell of a day to do so," Hogg ventured, with a casual salute.

Shields smiled as he returned the salute and handed the second cup of tea he was carrying to Hogg. "If I was looking for the sun," the major countered, "this is the last place on earth I'd come."

The two men chuckled over this tete-a-tete, sipped their tea, and looked around at the comings and goings of the soldiers entrusted to them for several minutes. Hogg noted that the major kept looking over to where Sergeant McPherson was in the process of untying Jones and the candidate McPherson had run to ground. Hogg could see by the major's expression that he was displeased with Hogg's handling of Jones. But the major would say nothing. As long as life and limb were not too recklessly endangered, the commander of this portion of the SAS's selection cycle pretty much left the techniques used by his people up to them.

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.

Yet as highly qualified and motivated as the Polish legionnaire was, he was never able to overcome a painful fear of heights. No matter how hard he tried or how many hours of free fall he logged, Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski's stomach always became roiled whenever the prospect of a jump loomed before him. And as if this were not bad enough, every member of his team knew it. As men of this type tend to do, they never let him live it down. Even now, as the French Air Force Transall C-160 climbed to altitude, his compatriots were conspiring against him. Seated next to the open door, the jump master for the team, Adjutant Hector Allons, leaned over and yelled out above the roar of air rushing into the Transall: "Franz, did you remember to bring plenty of barf bags for Stanislaus?"

Corporal Franz Ingelmann leaned forward and looked down the row of jumpers at the jump master. "Mon Dieu! I have forgotten them, again!'

"Damn you, man!" Allons thundered. "How could you? Have you already forgotten how slippery it can get when the good Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski deposits his breakfast on the deck?"

Feigning panic, Ingelmann tore the helmet from his head and offered it up to the adjutant. "Here, use this. I really don't mind."

Since he was seated between the two men yelling back and forth to each other, Dombrowski heard everything. He was, as he usually was at times like this, less than amused. Slowly turning his head, he mustered up the best killing stare he could manage under the circumstances and glared at Ingelmann. "Fuck you both," the Polish NCO groaned. "You can take that helmet of yours and shove it up your ass."

Sporting a puzzled look, Ingelmann came back at Dombrowski without missing a beat. "I do not see what good that would do either of us. Sergeant. I'm not having any problem keeping my bodily fluids contained, while it is obvious that you are on the verge of spewing."

In no mood to entertain his fellow team members by joining into the little play Allons and Ingelmann were staging, Dombrowski settled back in his seat, muttering a halfhearted, "Fuck you." Once he was as comfortable as his condition and his equipment permitted, he closed his eyes and began to pray that Allons would soon stand up and start issuing the commands that would bring his misery to an end.

How long it took before that moment came was hard for Dombrowski to judge. Forced to concentrate his entire attention on keeping himself together, he was unable to gauge the passing of time with any degree of accuracy. Rather than concern himself with what was going on about him, he was tightly focused on his struggle to preserve his dignity. So it wasn't until Ingelmann poked him in the side that Dombrowski opened his eyes. Towering over him, the Austrian legionnaire was grinning. "Do you plan on joining us, Sergeant Chef? Or would you prefer that we instruct the pilot to make another pass over the drop zone when you are feeling more yourself?"

Though he was still in considerable distress, Dombrowski managed a cutting glare in response to the young Austrian's snide comment. This only caused Ingelmann's devilish grin to broaden. "Just asking."

Having made the trip this far without losing his composure or the contents of his stomach, Dombrowski took his time as he pulled himself up off the nylon jump seat to take his position in the line of paratroopers, known as a "stick." As he did so, no one offered their suffering comrade a hand. While the Legion is a brotherhood that commands a loyalty among its members that makes most blood kinship pale in comparison, there are certain rules and limits. One of the rules that has been a part of the Legion since its inception trumps all. That code demands that each and every legionnaire pull his own weight. It was essential, especially among parachutists, that every member of the unit be able to keep up and execute his assigned duties without fail. Only by doing so could the survival and success of the unit, whether it be a battalion or a small ten-man team, be assured. While it has been noble in Western literature to extol the virtue of honoring the sacrifice of the many for the good of the one, in combat, both leaders and soldiers must be as analytical and dispassionate as a mathematician. For combat abides by its own cruel form of arithmetic. Whether it is expressed by the amount of explosives required to achieve a desired degree of destruction, or in computing how much firepower will be needed to destroy an enemy unit, hard logic rules.

Dombrowski understood this. While legionnaires are indoctrinated to never abandon a wounded or dead comrade, the Pole knew that two men, or even one, could not be subtracted from the small unit's remaining complement of nine to care for one who was in distress. Ingelmann was not being unkind by refusing to offer a hand to his ailing friend. Rather, he was doing Dombrowski a favor. A soldier in a highly specialized unit such as CRAP who cannot keep up after being inserted deep behind enemy lines can be a lethal liability to all, as well as to the mission. To these highly trained professionals, it is duly, and not the man, that is everything. For the same code of honor that commanded them never to turn their backs on a fallen legionnaire also bound them to accomplish their assigned mission to its conclusion, regardless of the cost.

Mustering all his strength, the Polish NCO managed to take his place in the slick. Once on his feet, he shifted his equipment about so that everything would be where it needed to be when the long nylon cords of his deploying parachute snapped taut and brought his two-hundred-kilometers-per-hour free-fall plunge to an abrupt end. Only at that moment, when his body was jerked upright by a blossoming canopy, would Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski be free from his misery and able to turn his mind to the mission at hand.

He was in the process of yanking a strap on his harness back onto his shoulder to where it should have been when the shrill sound of the buzzer alerted him that it was time to go. Even before he looked away from his harness, his feet were in motion, moving along the swaying aluminum floor of the transport in rhythm with the other nine members of his team. Dombrowski could feel Ingelmann behind him, pushing him toward the door, just as he was doing to the man in front of him.

Exiting an aircraft as the member of a stick of paratroopers was always a blur for Stanislaus Dombrowski. So much was happening in a very confined space, in such a short period of time, that it was hard to take notice of any single image or event. This frenzied and confusing burst of activity was compounded by a rush of sensations, from the shock of facing the cold, stiff blast of air that came howling through the open door, to the feeling of being shoved from behind by a comrade as he moved along the heaving deck under his feet. As Dombrowski approached the door, the shouts of the jump master repeating his command, "Go! Go! Go!" mingled with the steady drone of the aircraft's engines, the annoying blare of the buzzer, and the screeching wind. All this served to heighten the Polish legionnaire's excitement, already brought to a feverish pitch by the flow of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

In these last few seconds before stepping out into thin air, all traces of the big Pole's queasiness disappeared. He no longer had to wrestle with his fear that he would lose his composure. All conscious thought was gone. Like the other nine members of the CRAP team to which he belonged, his body and mind responded as it had been trained and conditioned to do. Stanislaus Dombrowski was no longer a Pole far from home serving a country that was not his. He was no longer a man who had a particularly acute fear of heights and flying. He was a legionnaire, and as such, a highly skilled professional killing machine thundering through the open door of the C-160 transport without hesitation, without regard for personal consequences. When combined with the other members of his team, these men of the 2eme Bataillon Etranger Parachutiste became a force to be reckoned with.