The honest answer is that I rarely invent them from nothing.
I draw inspiration from life. Sometimes it’s something I’ve experienced myself. Sometimes it’s a story told to me by someone I trust. Sometimes it’s buried in the history books, waiting to be rediscovered.
Reality has an annoying habit of being more unbelievable than fiction.
My job is simply to turn those moments into stories.
I write far more than ever appears in a novel. Chapters, short stories, novellas – and occasionally something that doesn’t quite belong anywhere. Those pieces usually disappear into a folder on my computer.
This was one I couldn’t quite bring myself to archive.
I’ll let you decide whether it’s fact…
…or fiction.
***
The team had decided that a quiet drink at the local watering hole was in order. The bar at the George & Dragon had settled into that warm late-evening haze where nobody was really drinking for the alcohol anymore. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Somewhere near the dartboard, Razz was losing an argument with Clara about whether bourbon counted as “civilised”.
Stephanie sat beside Drew at the far end of the bar, one leg folded beneath her. A glass of whisky rested in her hand, mostly untouched.
“You know,” she said, watching the amber liquid catch the light, “I still don’t understand how you lot operate.”
Drew glanced sideways. “Meaning?”
“You. The whole ex-SBS thing.”
“That narrows it down enormously.”
Stephanie ignored him. “Every story starts with someone making tea during a gunfight.”
“Tea before tactics.”
“You say that like it’s an actual doctrine.”
“It is.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“It should be.”
Mike Harrington, sitting several stools away, groaned softly. “Here we go.”
Stephanie pointed at him. “See? Even he knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That there’s a story.”
“There is always a story,” Razz called from the other end of the room.
Drew sighed heavily, the sigh of a man unfairly persecuted by his own history. “Fine.”
***
It had been one of those trips that nobody wanted. Joint exercises. International cooperation. Strategic partnership. All phrases that sounded excellent in briefing papers and considerably less appealing in reality.
The team had landed in Virginia after an overnight flight from the UK.
Eight exhausted operators emerged from the C130 carrying battered Bergans that looked older than some governments.
Waiting for them on the tarmac was a welcoming committee from a SEAL Team.
The Americans looked immaculate. Their uniforms were pressed. Their boots gleamed. Their vehicles looked freshly washed. One of the Americans actually appeared moisturised. Harris looked genuinely suspicious.
Harris stared at them for several seconds. “Christ.”
“What?” Drew asked.
“They look like they’re here to sell us something.”
The American officer leading the reception approached with a smile.
“Welcome to the United States.”
“Thank you,” Drew replied.
The officer’s gaze drifted across the troop.
His eyes settled on Harris. He was forty-two years old, built like a dockyard crane and carried himself with the permanent exhaustion of a man who had seen too much nonsense.
The American extended a hand. “You must be the senior NCO.”
Harris looked behind himself. “Me?”
“Yes, Colour Sergeant isn’t it?”
Harris blinked. “I’m a corporal.”
The American’s smile faltered. “What?”
“I’m a corporal.”
Several members of the troop immediately looked away to hide their amusement.
The American spent the next few moments visibly recalculating his understanding of British military rank structures.
It would not be the last time.
***
The briefing began shortly after lunch. Forty-seven minutes later it finally ended.
By minute ten, somebody was discussing entry geometry.
By minute sixteen, someone else had produced a laser pointer.
By minute twenty-three, Harris had fallen asleep.
By minute twenty-eight, one of the Americans was explaining why aggression dominated confined-space engagements.
By minute thirty-five, one of the team had started a betting pool on how many slides remained.
By minute forty-two, even the Americans looked tired.
When the presentation finally ended, the room exhaled collectively.
The lead instructor folded his arms.
“Questions?”
A hand immediately went up.
The instructor nodded. “Yes?”
“Any chance of a tea break before the next lecture?”
The Americans stared.
The team did not.
The relationship deteriorated rapidly after that. Not through hostility. Simply mutual confusion.
The Americans could not understand how anyone entrusted with national security could appear so relaxed.
The team could not understand why anyone voluntarily attended briefings that long.
Three days later Harris disappeared into town. When he returned he was carrying plastic shopping bags. Drew glanced inside.
Water pistols – Super Soakers to be exact.
Bright yellow. Children’s toys. One appeared to be shaped like a dolphin.
“Harris.”
“Yes?”
“What are those?”
“Future diplomatic incident.”
***
The kill-house exercise took place the following morning. The scenario was straightforward. SEAL Team assaulted. The British defended.
Blank ammunition. Flashbangs. Training objectives. Everybody behaving professionally.
At least that had been the intention.
The Americans stacked outside the building. Every movement precise. Every gesture rehearsed. The assault commander gave final instructions. The team watched through cameras from inside.
Harris quietly distributed Super Soakers.
Nobody asked questions.
Years of experience had taught them that when Harris looked that pleased with himself, resistance was pointless.
The first flashbang detonated. The first door came off its hinges. The first SEAL entered the structure.
Harris leaned around a corner and shot him directly in the face with a bright yellow dolphin.
The American froze.
Then chaos arrived.
Water pistols appeared everywhere. Operators emerged from rooms firing streams of water. Somebody shouted “contact front” before being hit with a plastic shark. The radio network descended into complete confusion.
Several observers had to leave the control room because they were laughing too hard.
One particularly aggressive American assault was repelled by three British operators hiding behind a sofa armed with children’s toys.
The exercise ended shortly afterwards. The debrief was memorable.
One American officer was genuinely furious. “This is a professional military exercise.”
“Correct,” Drew agreed.
“You turned it into a joke.”
“No.”
Drew gestured around the room. “We turned it into a learning experience.”
“What exactly did you learn?”
“That you’re surprisingly vulnerable to aquatic assault.”
Drew still remembered the expression on the officer’s face. It suggested he was considering several career-ending decisions simultaneously.
***
That evening there was a barbecue. Beer appeared. The atmosphere improved. Distance and alcohol often solved problems that rank could not.
Drew found himself sitting beside one of the SEAL operators from the exercise. The American introduced himself as Walker. Unlike some of the others, Walker seemed entirely comfortable with being made fun of.
“Your lot always like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
Walker gestured vaguely. “The jokes. The sarcasm. The tea.”
Drew considered the question. “Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why act like none of this matters?”
For a moment Drew watched the sunset over the training area. Then he shook his head.“That’s not what’s happening.” Drew took a sip of beer. “We take it seriously.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“We just don’t advertise it.”
Walker laughed. “No offence, man, but half your team looks like they wandered out of a bar.”
“That’s because they probably did.”
Walker shook his head. “You guys are impossible.”
“Not impossible.” Drew smiled. “Just British.”
The American stared at him. “That’s somehow worse.” For a while they sat in comfortable silence. Eventually Walker spoke again. “You know why we’re intense?”
Drew glanced across.
Walker looked toward the horizon. “Because every time we get it wrong, somebody doesn’t come home.” The humour faded slightly.
Drew nodded once. “I know.”
Walker looked at him. For the first time all day, neither man was smiling. Neither needed to. They understood each other perfectly.
***
The final exercise took place two days later.
Hostage rescue. Bus interdiction. Multiple armed terrorists. Civilian role players. Timed event. Observers from both countries.
The sort of scenario everyone secretly cared about.
The SEAL Team went first. They hit hard. Fast. Aggressive. Doors breached. Targets engaged.
Bus secured in under three minutes.
The observers were impressed. Unfortunately three hostages were declared dead. Training casualties. Acceptable losses. The assault commander seemed reasonably pleased regardless.
The team watched quietly. Nobody offered criticism. Nobody offered praise. Drew simply studied the photographs of the bus. The windows. The seating plan. The reflections. The angles.
When their turn arrived, the Americans expected another joke. Instead they found eight men who had become very serious.
The change was subtle. No shouting. No speeches. No theatrics. Just focus.
Drew watched the bus for almost thirty seconds.
An observer frowned. “What are they waiting for?”
Walker answered without taking his eyes off the vehicle. “They’re thinking.”
The assault began. A distraction at the front. Simultaneous entry from the rear. An unconventional entry through side windows.
Four operators securing civilians. Others isolating threats. Every movement deliberate. Every shot accountable.
The final terrorist went down. The exercise ended.
One minute and forty-three seconds.
No civilian casualties.
Not one.
Silence settled across the observation area.
The footage was reviewed three times. The outcome never changed. No dead hostages. No mistakes. No wasted movement.
Walker found Drew afterwards. “How?”
Drew shrugged. “We weren’t trying to win.”
Walker frowned. “Then what were you trying to do?”
Drew looked back toward the bus. “Save the hostages.”
Walker stood quietly for several moments. Then he nodded. A professional recognising another professional.
Nothing more needed saying.
***
Back in the pub, silence lingered around the bar. Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Stephanie stared at Drew. “You know,” she said eventually, “I’m not entirely convinced that story is true.”
“Which part?”
“The dolphin.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“The Americans.”
“There is mutual respect, we get on great. I still speak to Walker occasionally.”
“The tea.”
Drew looked mildly offended. “The tea is the most believable part.”
Laughter rippled around the room. Then it faded.
Drew turned his glass slowly between his fingers.
“That’s the thing people misunderstand about British special forces.”
The room grew quiet.
“We take what we do very seriously.”
He looked around the table, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
“We just don’t take ourselves seriously.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Somehow that silence made the point better than any punchline ever could.
***
So … fact or fiction? I’ll leave that for you to decide.
