by Geoff Wolak
‘Before you leave, call me and check your phone, then proceed to the first RV with the local resistance, the first set of coordinates on the paper. You will then proceed into enemy held territory whilst not being seen, to the second set of coordinates. What route you take is up to you, but best to avoid falling off cliffs at night.
‘At the second set of coordinates you will find ... something. Stop and observe, make notes, make a map and a sketch, then report it in. You will receive updated instructions. And gentlemen ... that first objective is thirty-six miles away.’
‘Be there for lunch then,’ Tomo quipped, making me smile.
Captain Harris continued, ‘You now have fifteen minutes to plan a route, which ... you can alter on the way should you find that your initially chosen route is ... a bit shite.’
I accepted a coffee and spoke to Crab and Duffy as the routes were planned. When ready the lads set out, a cheeky smile from Tomo, Nicholson looking confident, and off they went north, and away from the usual ranges, the next four lads sent in.
These four would be tasked with differing routes so that the various Wolves would not bump into each other; they would turn southwest a few miles before heading north.
‘First RV is south of Tirabad,’ I told Crab, and he nodded, checking the map.
With all the lads away, I sat in the command room as lists were pinned to walls, departure times noted. The lady Signals captains had their clever machine ready, and every ten minutes a list would be printed, GPS coordinates of the lads, numbers matched to names – then to the map.
‘One is not working right,’ a lady announced. ‘According to this he’s in ... Canada.’
‘That happens sometimes,’ Captain Harris put in. ‘It’ll correct itself when the satellite moves.’
The Major stepped in. ‘All off and running are they?’
‘Off and walking in a stealthy manner, I hope,’ I told him.
‘Colonel Rawlson is on his way apparently, I got a tip off.’
I shrugged. ‘What for?’
‘Don’t know, but we are still SAS, and he’s the colonel, so ... he can do whatever he likes.’
I made the Major a tea, and we sat chatting about the Wolves in general – and this exercise in particular.
The Colonel turned up later in the Regimental helicopter, RSM with him. I met them outside with the Major and saluted, both men in jumpers with Regimental belts holding in stomachs. ‘Welcome, sir. Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea will be fine,’ he said, and I led him inside.
He knew most of the faces, and peered at the map, and lists of names. ‘So this week’s programme ... does what?’
‘The Lone Wolves have had seven weeks of training, sir, and by now they should be able to read a map and plan a route as if moving through enemy territory,’ I began. ‘This is a test as well as practise, to see what it may be like for real, but – having said that – they all fired weapons in anger in the Congo, so they got some experience.’
He nodded, and sipped his tea.
‘They have thirty-six miles to cover on the first leg, rabbit to skin for lunch, but if they plan the route badly they’ll get no time to sleep and they’ll walk into dog patrols. The aim of the route planning is to make them think, not just walk up a hill.
‘Two weeks ago they were in Catterick, and they’ve had training on making sketches and maps of enemy bases, avoiding dogs, choosing terrain, making hides. The idea here is that this simulates a wartime scenario, long range recon.’
‘And how far will they walk?’
‘Around thirty miles a day for five days, sir, little sleep.’
‘Quite a task, given that some were ... modestly experienced beforehand.’
‘Yes, sir, but they have been knocking out twenty-four hour speed tests, and at Catterick they got little sleep in five days. They run ten miles or more a day every day. What this will do will see how their brains work when tired, and get them used to sneaking up on places and making sketches, noting enemy patrols.’
‘All things that my lot should be capable of.’
‘Yes, sir, but as we debated last night; which is best for stealth – one man, or a four man team?’
‘Depends on the task,’ he replied. ‘One man can sneak in quietly, a team can do a lot more, carry a lot more.’ He sipped his tea. ‘You have a scoring system?’
‘Yes, sir, and this is mostly run by Intel, so if you want to put some lads through it, Captain Harris is your man.’
‘I will do, eight of them, see how they do. It’s another benchmark, and the more of those the better.’ He sipped his tea. ‘”A” Squadron have a new swagger about them, winding up the others, operational HALO drops, successful rescues.’
‘Live operations do break the tedium of training after training, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Had a complaint from the RAF Parachute School – we’re not using them enough.’
‘Problem is, sir, none of their instructors have dropped into enemy territory ... or killed anyone.’
He nodded. ‘Yet they teach us how to do it.’ He took a moment. ‘Could you keep them happy, use them now and again, they are on your doorstep.’
‘Will do, sir, we want them onboard – and not whinging.’
‘Many of my lot want to train in the States.’
‘Few of their instructors have dropped on a live target, sir.’
‘But some have.’
‘Leave it with me, sir, I know just what to do,’ I said with a smile.
‘Drop them in a bad spot?’ he challenged.
‘Yes, sir, why not – they’re paid to do a job, not just teach aerobics.’
He nodded, finished his tea and placed it down. ‘I’ll pop back Friday, see what state these young men are in.’
With the Colonel departed, his helicopter heading east, I called the Air Commodore.
‘Wilco, my boy, in trouble again?’
‘Not me, sir, your parachute instructors.’
‘What have they done?’ he puzzled.
‘Not enough, apparently, the SAS don’t want to use them anymore.’
‘There have been ... words spoken. What have you heard now?’
‘Forget what’s being said, sir, and let’s fix the problem. Your HALO instructors are PTIs qualified in nice press-up positions, so how about you give them to me for a while, some soldiering, plus a live drop - or ten, over some place very nasty.’
‘They’re not special forces!’
‘No, but they try and tell special forces how it’s done.’
‘I see what you mean, and it has been mentioned a few times. Leave it with me, I’ll make it look like my idea and sound a few people out.’
The assigned Puma put down at the main Sennybridge camp and hour later, and Morten was driven down by an Army sergeant with some spare time.
I shook Morten’s hand. ‘All set?’
‘Four of us, Puma, maps, hope no one is hurt.’
‘Me too. Most likely chance of trouble is when they’re tired, and that’s Wednesday onwards.’
We got a call an hour later, medics and Puma off.
‘Who’s hurt?’ I shouted.
SIGINT exchanged puzzled looks.
‘No one reported,’ Harris said, big shrugs given. We rang the Sennybridge camp, our Puma off to get two young regular soldiers who went over a ravine, legs broken. We sighed, relieved, and sat back down.
Throughout the day the lads called in, some ahead of schedule, some on time, none so far lagging. Crab reported contact made at certain points, names noted, rabbits dispensed.
Rocko and Slider were hidden above a narrow valley, and had called in movement, and how stealthy that movement was. Rizzo and Stretch were in a cluster of trees, and also calling in movement seen.
Dog patrols had gone out, and lads had been seen evading them from vantage points, and so far the Wolves were doing well enough.
At midnight I checked the master sheet, and the map, Tomo and Nicholson down and sleeping
for four hours, good time made, thirty six miles covered. They would each sleep with oven timers taken, which would hopefully wake them. And, hopefully, they had picked a good spot to bed down, smelly bits of rag left to distract any dogs long enough for my lads to wake and up evade a dog patrol.
Tomo had asked for an alarm call wake-up, and Captain Harris had agreed; there was no rule against it, and it was showing some common sense.
In my hut, I said, ‘Tomo rang in and asked for a wake-up call.’
‘That allowed?’ Mahoney asked.
‘Why not, it shows initiative, and there’s always someone at the end of the phone. What did you lot do today?’
Moran began, ‘Some new recruits were going over that assault course, and it looked hard, so we were on the range.’
‘No bird in spandex?’ I teased.
‘Not around this fucking swamp,’ Swifty huffed.
At 5am I was up and outside having a pee, a cold stiff wind blowing, some low clouds – a typical summer’s day in Brecon. In the command room I met two duty Intel captains, both men – the ladies still asleep.
Crab and Duffy were up, hugging their coffee mugs like their lives depended on it, and about to go drive around where the lads should have been, and if any were spotted they’d be in trouble. Rabbits loaded up half an hour later, some onions and some cabbage, Crab and Duffy set off across a bleak and windswept landscape.
Tomo made it to the OP position unseen, but now had to stay awake and make notes and sketches. Knowing his drawing ability, I was not optimistic.
The Puma headed off when the weather cleared, and its crew tried to spot our lads in a certain valley. Hopefully, the lads would hide from the helicopter.
With eight lads now in hides and observing Sergeant Crab driving around below, I took a break and we drove to a pub for some food, not that welcome by the locals, who turned from speaking English to Welsh when they saw us. I sat with Sasha and spoke in Russian.
The pub landlord eventually asked where we were from.
Moran told him, ‘Exchange programme, Russian soldiers here, friendly visit.’
The landlord, an old Warrant Officer, puzzled that to the point of making a phone call. When we paid, he said, ‘Never heard of Russians being allowed here, and I checked with the Army, and they never heard of it neither.’
I laughed.
Moran said, ‘We weren’t speaking Russian, it was Moldovan.’ Outside, Moran added, ‘Well that’s one pub we should avoid this week. Anyone remember the way back?’
‘Got a map?’ I asked.
‘Nope,’ he responded.
‘Some special forces operators we are,’ Swifty quipped.
‘Too many trees, all green,’ I said. ‘Always confuses me.’
‘Why don’t we ask someone?’ Moran joked.
‘That way,’ I said, pointing. ‘And many Moldovans speak Russian, not that Moldova is a proper country – more like an historic prostitute.’
‘They speak Russian?’ Moran puzzled, Sasha explaining the history. We found the turn off-eventually.
As the weather closed in, and it got darker, I observed the detailed sheets being annotated by the SIGINT crowd, model soldiers being moved on the main map. So far only one was behind schedule, and now heading the wrong way. I grabbed a phone and called his number.
‘Hello?’ he asked, sounding out of breath.
‘Which way you headed, fuckwit?’
‘Er ... west.’
‘Try south, and check your fucking map, idiot. And pick up the pace.’ I hung up.
An hour later, and he was almost back on track. I remained till past midnight as the small green model soldiers inched very, very slowly across the map.
Back in the Intel room at 5am, I was stood with my cup of tea when Tomo came in looking tired, his lower half sodden and muddied.
‘Like a nice cuppa?’ I asked.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Then make it yourself, lazy fuck. Range will be ready in half an hour, you’re early – so I hope your sketches are good.’
Ten minutes later Captain Harris strolled up, yawning, and took the sketches and notes, to mark them later. With Moran and Swifty awake and with it, Tomo was led to the range, AKM handed over to him – already zeroed in, ten rounds issued, metal plates to hit at 500yards. Problem was, it was a bit foggy, so they had to wait.
Half an hour later, and Moran fired at a metal plate and hit it, and so Tomo was let loose. He scored nine out of ten. Back in the command room he was handed fresh instructions, allowed to top up water, and off he went as Nicholson came in – almost dead on time. Sketches handed over, recon notes, he was led to the range and hit ten for ten, soon dispatched as the day cleared a little.
Swan and Leggit hit ten for ten, looking fresh with it, the civvies a little behind schedule, most scoring eight out of ten on the plates.
At noon an unscheduled call came in, panic ensuing. My name was shouted as I stood outside.
A flustered Captain Harris reported, ‘It’s Nicholson, he shot two civvies!’
‘Shot them? He hasn’t got any fucking ammo!’ I responded.
‘He had his pistol under his arm,’ Captain Harris report. ‘Some guys on trials bikes, they tried to relieve him of his rifle, so Nicholson shot them in the leg – Puma on its way.’
‘They tried to take his rifle?’ I repeated. I made a face. ‘Can’t let people nick those rifles, they work. Where is he now?’
‘He’s carrying on, we got the coordinates of the spot, and a description.’
‘Call the police, that’s not MOD land,’ I ordered. ‘They can interview him when he comes in.’
I stepped out and called the Major. ‘Problem, sir, Nicholson shot two civvies.’
‘He what!’ the Major exploded.
‘They tried to take his rifle.’
‘Take his rifle, they’re real guns – can’t have civvies nicking them!’ Calmer, he said, ‘Still, be hell to pay. On MOD land?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Double hell to pay. I’ll talk to the Colonel now.’
I felt a shit storm coming on, held my phone for a while – staring at it, then called Max at The Sun. He was soon on his way in a hurry, talk of a helicopter to Cardiff.
I got the number for Nicholson and called. He sounded out of breath, but gave me the detail.
‘Am I in trouble?’ he finally asked.
‘Yes and no. Yes, lots of trouble and an enquiry, but you can’t let people steal a live rifle – so it’s fifty-fifty. Try and stay out of trouble, eh.’
‘Will do, Boss.’
I called Bob, dragging him from a meeting. ‘Got a problem; Nicholson shot two civvies.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘The surrounded him, wanted his rifle, which was unloaded – but still a real rifle.’
‘Well, they attacked our man, and attempting to steal a weapon is a very serious offence. How badly are the men hurt?’
‘Minor leg wounds only.’
‘Well that’s something, and shows restraint on our part. I’ll have the men checked out, held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. I’ll let you know later what’s happening with the police.’
The Puma took the injured men straight down to Cardiff, landing on the grass at the Heath Hospital, and returned. Meanwhile, MPs had arrived and were asking questions, miffed that I had not brought Nicholson back in. I would do so if ordered, but so far no order had come, nor any shouting from Colonel Rawlson.
I got a call in to Colonel Bennet as I stood in a cold breeze, people heading in to get the gossip.
‘Wilco, been too long, my lad.’
‘I don’t call because I could never defend what I do these days.’
‘That’s not a good sign.’
‘Listen, one of my lads, walking over the Brecon Beacons, was attacked by thugs on motorbikes, wanting his rifle. He shot them in the legs with his pistol.’
‘Crikey. Still, serious offence to try and steal a rifle
– a real one I assume.’
‘Yes, sir, but no ammo.’
‘And your man showed restraint when he could have plugged them with holes, which is what I would have expected from your lot.’
‘This lad has a good attitude, and these are not regular SAS.’
‘I’ll start an outline case, you call me when the wheels start turning – but I’d say he’s in the clear, self defence.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
An MP captain turned up an hour later, the officer here in Sennybridge on another matter. I led him away from the command room and onto the scrub land. ‘Are you going to tell me I have to hand my man over?’
‘When’s he due back here?’
‘Friday he finishes the exercise, but he’ll be back here around 9am tomorrow for some range work. He could spare fifteen minutes and make a statement.’
‘Normal procedure dictates that we have the man and the pistol.’
‘You can have the pistol at 9am, and the man for half an hour to make a statement, and there’s not much to say. I have Colonel Bennet lined up to represent the lad.’
‘I know Colonel Bennet, he taught me – using you as an example, quite a few examples actually.’
I smiled. ‘I was innocent, mostly. Do I need Colonel Bennet here at 9am?’
‘No, I’ll take a statement and the pistol, you’re man is not under arrest, and I’m damn surprised he left them alive.’
‘These are not regular SAS, they have brains and they show some restraint – I don’t like trigger happy men. Oh, journalist on his way, be here in an hour, our usual embedded reporter.’
‘MOD would not sanction you giving the story.’
‘I won’t be, just the facts – and a huge dose of bias.’ I held my stare on him.
Looking peeved, he said, ‘9am then.’
He left as Morten drove in. ‘How’re those two men?’ I asked him.
‘Minor wounds, but the rounds will have to be dug out, maybe some bone damage.’
‘Gave you something to do,’ I teased.
‘What happened, exactly?’
‘They, and others, tried to steal a rifle from one of mine.’
‘Daft thing to do. We saw the others as we landed, five motorbikes on the grass.’