by Geoff Wolak
‘You’ll need to make a statement to the MPs, what you saw, what you did.’
He nodded. ‘Bit of excitement. How are these new lads holding up?’
‘So far so good, so don’t jinx it.’
Max turned up before we lost the light, the story given, Bob getting me details of the men involved – and their dodgy pasts. The men would be tried by the court of public opinion before so much as a statement was taken.
The next morning I drove out and fetched The Sun at 7.30am, bringing several newspapers back.
‘Brecon Beacons shoot-out,’ I read out loud, Max sleeping. ‘Subtle.’ I read on, ‘An SAS soldier, hero of campaigns in Angola, Sierra Leone and the Congo, was attacked by a gang of men on cross-country motorbikes on the Brecon Beacons yesterday, the men wanting his rifle – which was unloaded, and he had no ammunition for it.
‘He did, however, have his service pistol, and shot two men in the legs – showing restraint. He then called in a helicopter with military medics onboard, the two men airlifted to Cardiff Heath hospital in a stable condition.
‘South Wales police have not arrested the two men yet, and The Sun has learnt that they have a string of convictions, not least firearms offences.’
Captain Harris put in, ‘That idiot Max has fucked-up a trial, because releasing information like that is not allowed – prejudging. Jurors may see it.’
‘We don’t want a trial,’ I said. ‘Just want the damn thing to go away.’
Nicholson walked in at 8am, right on time, and to a slow hand clap and a lot of jeering, Max photographing him.
I shook my head at him. ‘Captain Moran, take this man to the range, please. And Nicholson, hit the targets only, no civvies nor any sheep.’
He was back at 8.30am, a discussion held, the MP captain turning up. Nicholson unloaded his pistol, demonstrated that it was empty, and handed it over, then sat and gave a statement for half an hour, signing it. I signed as witness.
Colonel Rawlson rang half an hour later. ‘Your reporter friend fucked things up, MOD not happy, police not happy, it prevents a trial.’
‘Which is what we wanted, sir, this put to bed and forgotten about.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s best. And people now know not to try and take rifles off servicemen – so it was good to get the story out there. I’ll pop down tomorrow.’
‘We’ll have the kettle on, sir.’
After lunch, calls coming in and out, we had to send out the Puma, a lad with a broken ankle. Sat there, I checked his times, and he was doing well, and had reported in the correct detail from his hide, and had not been spotted.
Morten appeared an hour later with our lad’s kit and rifle. ‘It’s a broken ankle, he’ll be out of action for months.’
‘Pity,’ I sighed, and we crossed his name off the list. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Splinted up, local anaesthetic, being driven down to Abergavenny Hospital.’
I made Morten a tea and we sat chatting, not least about fatigue during endurance events.
Tomo walked in with Smitty, both looking spent, and muddied. The next leg was simple enough, twenty miles south and southwest, around to the west, and back sometime tomorrow afternoon.
Water topped up, questions asked of health – and hypothermia, they were sent off, Max photographing the back of them. He had snapped the Puma and the medics, and would run a story on the sniper course Friday night, out on Saturday morning.
Leggit, Swan, and Gonzo appeared ten minutes apart, and I checked them over, questions asked. They had got some sleep, they had cooked their rabbits, and I was not worried about fatigue too much, dispatching them on the next leg at staggered intervals.
The next lad was looking determined, Sasha’s team looking dead on their feet, but being encouraged by Sasha in turn as they arrived back.
One lad came in late, could hardly stand, so I had him taken off the exercise, Morten called down.
‘Just fatigue,’ Morten said. ‘But his responses are too slow, be dangerous to send him back out.’
He was fed, a hot tea down his throat, and put to bed in my hut so that we could observe him. The lad had walked over a hundred miles, and had slept little in four days. I checked his scores as he slept. He had started off well, but had then suffered from fatigue on day three and four, the quality of his observations dropping.
By 8pm, all of the remaining Wolves had been sent back out, one given a hot sugary tea and a chocolate bar because of his tired state. Now we would carefully observe their GPS positions, a rotation set-up, Morten and his team on a moment’s standby.
But when the emergency call came, it was not quite as expected. Morten and his team flew to the given coordinates, the local police on the way, a nasty car crash to deal with – seen by Smitty as he passed over a ridge.
An hour later, we got a call from Morten, the edge taken off things; mum and daughter dead, hit by a drink-driver, the drunk given the best of care. And this time we did want a trial, Smitty getting a few extra points.
At 4am, one of the Wolves had been static for too long, so we called him. He answered, but his response was garbled, Morten sent out by jeep since the GPS position was close enough to a pubic road. They eventually found our lad on a ridge above the road, delirious and cold, and brought him back, to be held at the small medical bay in the main Sennybridge camp, IV drip in as the lad slept – Max having photographed him and the medics.
As the dawn came up we were in touch with all those left, some sounding damn tired, but not delirious yet. But then we got a call from Tomo, a slurred report of soldiers bothering them, a squad of soldiers out jogging.
I fixed the position of Tomo, grabbed the lads, and we drove off in two Land Rovers – in a hurry. Cresting a rise along a bumpy track, we peered down the valley, soon seeing a squad of muddy soldiers – and they were closing in on a Wolf as he plodded purposefully along.
As they merged with him, our Wolf was shoved over, mud and water kicked over him, the soldiers laughing. Whoever the Wolf was, he slowly got to back up and struggled on.
Back in the Land Rovers we reversed course, turned right, and came to a gate and sheep grill. Down from the Land Rovers we crossed a low stone wall, and waited, the squad coming up to us. Since we made a human wall, they had to stop.
‘Captain?’ a man asked.
I pointed back beyond them. ‘The man you just pushed over is one of mine.’
Their faces betrayed the fact that they knew they were fucked.
‘What regiment are you?’ I asked.
‘Royal Artillery, sir.’
‘Senior man?’
‘Me, sir.’
Rocko walked forwards casually, a blow landed to the man’s nose sending him down, followed by a good kick to the balls, horrified looks coming from the other young squaddies. Slider and Stretch had moved around with Swifty, Moran and Mahoney on the other side, Henri and Jacque with them and closing in as I hit the closest man.
The squad broke up, trying to get away, and four ran off as we pummelled the others, leaving a bloody mess behind.
I took out my pistol and knelt over the senior man. ‘I hear a fucking peep from you, and I’ll kill you.’ Standing, I kicked him in the ribs as one of our civvies came up the hill, now being encouraged along. He took in the odd scene, forced a smile whilst frowning, and plodded on.
When we got back, it was to find Colonel Rawlson and the RSM waiting, and to see Tomo come slowly limping in looking half dead, a cup of tea thrust into his hand as he sat in the command room, his time noted, his observations taken for marking. Chocolate bar downed, boots off – his blisters looking painful, he was led back to his hut and allowed to sleep.
Smitty walked in, a step away from delirious, assisted to a seat. Nicholson seemed to be OK, Gonzo was upright just about, but as Sasha’s team came in they were delirious, just about possessing the energy to plod slowly on.
Colonel Rawlson looked at the map and the distances. ‘Five days, hundred and twenty mi
les or so.’
I said, ‘One of the lads is yours, sir, Gonzo, fit man, but he came in half dead. Our fittest candidate also came in half dead.’
‘So it’s tough then,’ he agreed, nodding. ‘And the scoring?’
‘Assuming that they’re within an hour or two time wise, scores come down to the observations made, sketches. They all avoided the dog patrols, so that was good, and most of the observations are there – quality varying, and quality drops off as the fatigue hits. Yesterday we had two Land Rovers parked at a certain spot, sir, yet several lads had three or four noted.’
‘Indeed, the quality of the thought processes slows down. So the aim of the test was...’
‘Could they do a long distance recon and accurately record what they saw, and maintain discipline – as far as stealth goes. And the answer is ... yes for the most part. Some of this lot, you could drop them into a war tomorrow.’
Again Rawlson nodded, stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
No more than ten minutes after Rawlson had left, Bob called me. It was as if he knew. ‘So how’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Got one lad with a broken ankle, he’ll be off for months, and one was taken off the exercise, delirious.’
‘And overall?’
‘My four lads did well, your civvies did well enough – good on the parts that involved using their brains. I’d send those four, Sasha’s four, off on a job next week. Rest have potential but are not Echo material. Two lads that could be considered good. Question is, Bob, are the right men born – or made?’
‘This will help us to decide future policy. Any thoughts on how you would refine the course?’
‘Yes, and it’s obvious that any man can learn to strip and shoot a weapon and skin a rabbit, parachute OK, but as for the endurance and the thinking – that they’re born with. Fitness levels need to be looked at, because I hit a barrier.’
‘Many of the intake had languages and technical skills, which is why they were on the course,’ Bob explained. ‘But I guess you can only push fitness so far before you hit a natural barrier. Your three-day scenario is still our best bet. What comes next?’
‘Finish the parachuting, then more infiltration work. But do you want to spend the money on all of these lads?’
‘As I said, they had the skills and languages, and outlook, so they may be used.’
‘Next time I’ll put this exercise last, a bit more training ahead of it. My original thinking was that this exercise would cause men to drop out, leaving a select group.’
‘And if you had more time?’ Bob pressed.
‘Again, fitness levels would hit a barrier. Would need a year’s steady running to get there, not a few weeks.’
‘And if the qualifier was to parachute in, walk thirty miles, look at a place, walk thirty miles back and out, could they do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re comparing them to Echo too much, we don’t need superman, we need a good attitude and some skills.’
‘What I compare them to ... is me in Bosnia. They could be in a similar situation, and then fitness matters if they want to get out alive.’
‘Fair enough, and we’ll discuss it next week.’
Four lads were now overdue, Land Rovers sent out to search the routes they should have been on, and they were picked up in turn, some plodding along so slowly they would have taken a week to get to us – one being tended by a woman out walking her dog, so by 6pm we had everyone back save the two injured or fatigued lads, and Max had his story, the text and photos sent out after checking with me.
A night-long vigil checked breathing and pulses, and many Wolves woke during the night and got some food down them.
At 9am they were lined up as the buses arrived, all in trainers, all still appearing tired. Headcount done, one man collected off Morten – the medics thanked, and we set off, the Wolves soon asleep as the buses trundled along.
I stopped the bus to get copies of The Sun, and handed them out.
Lone Wolf Sniper Course: toughest of the tough.
It’s called Lone Wolf because Army sniper candidates are trained to work alone, to be self reliant, and their training is organised by the SAS Captain known as Wilco. After weeks of fitness training, weapons training, the candidates specialise with swimming in full kit and even firing at targets from the water. They progress to freefall parachuting, even at night, and are taught how to sneak up on a place and observe it whilst avoid dog patrols.
They’re taught how to expertly cross over fences, open doors and windows quietly, and sneak about quietly. The final test for the sniper candidates is a five day exercise on the Brecon Beacons, more than a hundred and fifty miles to cover and little sleep allowed. Candidates are only allowed to eat rabbits and raw vegetables.
I smiled and shook my head.
During this final exercise the men are required to sneak up on locations and make sketches of what they find, to create hides and observe road junctions, and to snipe at targets on a range at a distance of 500yards.
I was there when the men finished the exercise, and few could stand up, most needing medical assistance, two ending up in hospital. Feet were red raw and blistered.
One of the men, despite being dead on his feet, observed a car crash and called it in, an RAF helicopter landing medics to assist.
‘Not too bad,’ I told Swifty as he read it. The photographs that went with it were of Nicholson with his face blacked out, someone sniping on the range, a lad with a drip in his arm, and of a lad being carried back in.
‘Makes the course look tough,’ he said without looking up. ‘Won’t get anyone wanting to do it after this though.’
‘I’ll adjust it next time, a bit more time for sleep,’ I told Swifty.
‘Our lads did OK,’ he quietly protested.
‘It’s not for our lads.’
‘So we water it down, or look for superstars?’ he asked.
I eased back, thinking, lush green countryside passing us by, sheep in fields staring at me as I stared at them.
Monday morning, and the Wolves were gathered in the briefing room at 9.30am, one now dead, one with a broken ankle, the intake down to eighteen. The rest seemed OK, some faces still appearing tired, Captain Samantha Hedges and a colleague eyeing the lads carefully - and no doubt assessing them, Sasha sat at the back.
‘Gentlemen,’ I called. ‘Deadly Lone Wolves.’ They smiled. ‘Upon reflection ... I think the exercise last week was a bit tough for you. All of you came in half dead, but on the last day you should have been keenly making observations. Still, pushing yourselves like that is good experience.
‘When I got stuck behind the lines in Bosnia I found myself alone, cold, tired, wet, hungry – and injured. In times like that, your fitness – and determination – gets you back out alive. If some of you go off to do a naughty job someplace ... you may find yourselves alone and injured, a long way from a border – and a nice cup of tea.
‘What you’ll experience at such times will feel a lot like it did on that last day; very tired, but you need to plod on. Don’t plod on for the Army, plod on to stay alive. Plod on ... for yourselves.
‘Now, today we have Captain Hedges from the MOD, and you will all be interviewed. Whilst not being interviewed we have an expert here to teach you aerial recognition. You’ll be handed photos soon, and we want you to make a sketch of the camp seen in the photos. Of course, the photos are not very good.
‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ I waited, taking in their faces. ‘Anyone want to step down from the rest of the course?’
They exchanged looks, but none raised a hand.
‘Good attitude,’ I commended.
As they began to look at the photos handed out, Samantha and her colleague took Tomo out, Tomo giving me a cheeky grin and wiggling his eyebrows.
Bob and an assistant turned up just after our expert on aerial recognition and interpretation, and we held a meeting in the Major’s office, Moran and O’Leary in with us, teas
made.
Bob began, ‘Any of the Wolves quit?’
‘No, they’re all still keen – if not stubborn,’ I responded.
‘Meaning?’ Bob pressed.
‘Meaning ... that if I was out there I’d finish the course to spite the Army, not for other reasons.’
‘Fair enough, and hopefully Samantha will detect such attitudes. You have the scores from last week?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure I’ll let the lads know the scores, or the bottom few may think they’re not up to it. Fact is, they are, just that I tend to compare them to Echo lads.’
Bob’s assistant said, ‘And your four on the exercise?’
‘Nicholson was best, just about 100%. Send him on a job to assassinate someone behind the lines and he’ll come back in one piece.’
‘He’s ready for something like that now?’ the same man asked, getting a look from the Major.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He’s still young, early in his career by a few years, but yes.’
‘And the others?’ the same man asked.
‘Tomo would do the job, but stop off to shag a barmaid and get caught.’
They laughed.
‘Smitty would do it, but needs a few years yet. Gonzo would do it, but not as well as Nicholson.’
‘And the Russian speakers?’ Bob asked.
‘I’d send them off for a naughty job next week. With more training, they’d be excellent.’
Bob began, ‘We hadn’t considered what you’ve been doing with them, posing as Russian gunmen, but we’re very excited now.’
‘They convinced people in the Congo, and here. They were sat in the local pub singing rude songs, and a Ukrainian lady objected, convinced they were Russian.’
‘Yes, a good sign,’ Bob agreed. ‘But not about the rude songs.’
We all laughed.
‘And the rest of them?’ Bob’s assistant pushed.
‘Way better than the average soldier, but not superstars. And let’s be clear: we get good results because I have a team of superstars. The Wolves need extra training to ... shine.’
‘They have particular skills,’ the same man pointed out.