by Geoff Wolak
The teams were sent down to the buses, soon to be back in the capable hands of the RAF, Pumas on standby, medics on standby, and an hour and a half later I stood on a desolate road with a four jeep convoy, the drone of the Hercules growing, chutes soon seen, a mass of chutes, all out in one go, all drifting down, no Roman Candles seen – as far as we could tell in the poor light available.
The jeeps put their lights on, torches were flashed, whistles blown. Men down, the teams formed up and came over to us, one French soldier with a twisted ankle – handed to Morten, one of the Wolves with a twisted knee – and in agony, Slider having sprained a wrist. I taped up Slider’s wrist, he could carry on with the exercise.
Each team was handed a sheet of paper with instructions after chutes had been handed in, and after studying the map they moved off in different directions. If my calculations were correct, they would not bump into each other.
Two hours later, Echo peeked over a low ridge, seeing three jeeps, and six men about a camp fire. Swifty snuck down, a vehicle registration required. A dog bark caused a hasty retreat.
Wind direction checked, a decoy man sent off, Swifty moved again, the decoy man whistling low, and making the dog bark. The dog handler let the dog investigate, on its lead, but found nothing, Swifty getting a registration number before withdrawing.
Echo now had a long walk back, and they avoided two other teams that were close by, arriving back at 1am, and dismissed after they handed in the vehicle registration number.
The Wolves, the team with my four lads, also had a registration number, but admitted to pushing someone over before legging it away whilst being barked at.
The first French team had the registration, not seen getting it, few others getting the registration before being chased off by the dogs, flares fired up.
Mally had snuck up close to a vehicle, and as the dog handlers chased someone else he got three registrations before legging it away. His team got extra points, all happy with that.
At 9am – the sun high - I blew the whistle, and they slowly gathered, all tired now, and dusty with it.
‘No point in listing all the team scores – the French lost.’
They jeered.
‘But, within the French teams, Team One came first.’ The men of that team cheered. ‘Team Three next.’ They were surprised, the officers having beaten the men. ‘Team two need a kick in the arse.’
Their major wagged a warning finger at them.
‘French Team One did well, but you need to slow down to shoot, get the emotions under control, breathing under control. A firefight is controlled chaos, nothing ever goes as planned, but you need a cool head to shoot straight. Practise that, we do. OK, pack up, buses here soon, down to the road when ready.’
An hour later we were on the beach, swimming in our underpants, cold beer arriving in crates, the buses sat waiting, our local drivers asleep.
I stood with the French major and Moran, cold beer in hand. I told him, ‘We play the games over and over, but it does help, and sometimes we have deja-vu when we go on a job and it looks just like that make-believe village.’
He nodded.
I added, ‘In Canada, at the NATO special forces exercise, we had to approach a camp and get inside, and this camp - the fences and the huts - they looked just like the one we train on in England, it could have been the same place.’
‘We have a make believe village, but it looks like Germany.’
We laughed.
‘We’ll never go rescue hostages in Germany I think.’ He pointed at my bare chest. ‘I think you have seen too much soldiering, my friend.’
‘I have picked up a few wounds.’
Moran pointed out his through-and-through, and a few other scars. ‘His fault,’ he said, thumbing towards me. ‘I could be sat behind a desk.’
‘How were your wounded men after the Congo?’ I asked.
‘They have good care. In France, the wounded soldiers get good money and care. Those who came back wounded are alive, but some will not come back to us I think.’
‘You knew Major Ducat?’
He nodded.
‘I would have liked to shoot that idiot,’ I said.
‘Ah, you and me both. He was an idiot, and his car crash – not so much the accident I think. Maybe the men helped is car leave the road.’
‘He got a lot of men killed,’ I floated.
‘Of course, and he was letting Paris tell him what to do. You warned of movement, RPG at 4am, that should have been enough.’ He shook his head. ‘A bad business that. But after Djibouti things are better, and Angola – the French people think we have more men with you.’
‘We heard that, yes.’
‘Angola was superb, I read all the detail ten times, yes. If there had not been so many hostages ... you would have been out in six minutes. It was good planning. Bravo.’
‘Good planning needs luck, Major. Lots of luck.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, and the helicopter hitting the power lines, bad luck.’
Moran put in, ‘Worst luck was here, Mauritania. We got the hostages, then a Puma was hit by an RPG.’
‘I was there, at the airfield, a day later.’ He shook his head. ‘Bodies melted to the metal. I see the image sometimes, horrible what the hot fire does.’
‘When you coming to England?’ I asked.
‘They say we can, anytime.’
‘So come soon, and you can practise infiltration on houses that don’t look German.’
We laughed.
I added, ‘But we have a make-do German prison, World War Two. We put men in and they have to try and escape.’
‘Ah, yes, I heard. We can try that?’
‘Of course, but the food is terrible,’ I warned.
Sandy feet were cleaned off as the sun approached the horizon, and we drove to the airfield, kit handed to the RAF, a midnight flight back, clothes in need of a good wash.
Mally and his men were in a good mood, rejuvenated somewhat, but Morten was whinging at having little to do – a few sprained ankles. I thanked Mister Haines and his two flights, asking if they enjoyed their holiday in the sun.
We arrived back at GL4 at 9am the next morning, a cold overcast day, and Bob called me as I entered my house. I sighed before answering. ‘Hey Bob.’ Swifty shot me a look.
‘You’re back?’
‘Just this minute.’
‘Just as well, someone threw a grenade at the French down there, at that airfield.’
‘They did? When?’
Swifty got the kettle on.
‘Late last night, a few minor wounds. They caught the man, Algerian.’
‘Have the French upset any Algerians?’ I teased.
‘One or two over the years.’
‘French were the targets, not us, and we’re all in one piece. So relax.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Fine, all got some training in, some hot desert training - always useful, change of scenery, a few static line drops.’
‘And Mally’s group?’
‘They did well, no fighting or shit attitudes, they’re coming along. I gave them several infiltration exercises, recon, and hostage rescue, and they did well enough, they even jumped before the attacks on the dummy village, so they could do a live job.’
‘You think they could do a live job?’
‘After what I’ve seen, yes.’
‘Good to know. And the Wolves?’
‘They got some desert training in, which they needed, so if they’re sent out they know what it’s like. No serious injuries, no one whinging, a few sunburnt faces. And as you know, Bob, success is the absence of fuck-ups, and there were no fuck-ups.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Oh, did you know that Rawlson pinched away four Externals?’
‘Yes, and you said you were happy with that?’
‘I’d be happy with that if he asked first!’
‘I’m surprised he never told, a bit sneaky.’
‘He’s tryin
g to keep me in my place, a captain – which I am. And listen, the Pathfinders officers and NCOs – right wankers. The Externals are fine, their support team a nuisance.’
‘I’ll look into it.’
‘Two Pathfinders got 92 and 93 points on the three-day, so how long till Rawlson pinches them away?’
‘You want them with you?’
‘No, two troops of eight is enough. Oh, invite the French over to do The Factory with us.’
‘The GIGN have been, liked it, going to copy it.’
‘I mean the 1st Para Brigade, since we’re not going to work in Paris.’
‘Right, will do. That’s Henri’s unit, yes.’
‘Yes, mostly working in West Africa – where the French still have a colonial attitude.’
Swifty handed me a brew and we sat in the spacious lounge. I began, ‘Someone threw a grenade at the French lads, after we left.’
‘Bit cheeky. They get the man?’
I sipped my tea. ‘Yeah, Algerian.’
‘French have been shooting Algerians for a long time,’ Swifty noted. ‘Someone wanted revenge for his in-laws.’
We sat sipping our teas, both tired.
Swifty asked, ‘Wolves get enough done?’
‘Any more and they’d have suffered from heat stroke; can’t practise acclimatisation back here. They got some sand and heat, they navigated the desert, static line drop into the desert followed by a long walk, sleeping and eating in the sand – that’s what I wanted, that bit of experience so that it doesn’t come as a shock when they do it for real.’
‘Mally was chipper.’
I sipped my tea and nodded. ‘They have the experience, they have the years in, so if the attitude is right they’re excellent men. Just need that attitude.’
‘Better now, from when I first met him.’
‘If I thought that the attitude would hold, I’d train them up and use them with us. Do me a favour; spend some time with them, sound them out, nudge them along.’
Swifty nodded before sipping his tea. ‘Milk from the MPs again.’
‘Good of them. Remind me to give them a few quid.’
‘Puppy is getting bigger. Only another eight months and two weeks to go and we’ll be secure.’
I smiled widely, shaking my head.
Monday morning, and Bongo called me to the armoury. ‘Got these for you, you did mention them.’
‘What are they?’ I puzzled, holding up oddly shaped 5kg weights.
‘You clip it onto the barrel, steadies it.’
‘Ah, I remember.’ I shot him a look. ‘Took long enough.’
‘Talk to the fucking MOD. I had the request in, and they came from Romania somewhere.’
‘Now get me the green plastic ones with metal clips, or just make some, be quicker.’
He handed me a second piece of kit. ‘Came with it, not sure why.’
‘Ah, I am,’ I said with a smile.
I grabbed most of the Echo lads, a few on holiday this week, and we headed to the range with weapons and ammo, Crab and Duffy driving down to the butts, the Major observing.
Target up, I got ready, clipping the weight to the end of the barrel, behind the foresight, the lads puzzling it. Sights checked, I put ten rounds into the bull at 600yards.
Lifting up, I handed my rifle to Rocko. ‘The weight helps to stop the barrel twitching. Laws of physics, momentum and inertia. Try it.’
Rocko hit ten bulls in a tight group, which was better than he would have usually done.
Next I had a spare railway sleeper from the creation of the Killing House brought out and placed down. I clipped on the second device to the middle of the front grip, and lowered the sharp spike, jamming it down into the wood. Laying behind the sleeper, I hit ten bulls again.
Easing up, I said, ‘It’s like the folding bayonet on the old AK47, only a spike. You fold it away, and in the jungle you get down behind a log and jam it in, suddenly a stable platform. I handed them out. ‘Major...’
‘Been a while,’ he said as he got down.
I clipped on the front weight. ‘Sights are zeroed.’
He blasted away, ten rounds, a good grouping achieved just left of the bull. ‘Better than I used to do, feels very stable. Good innovations.’
An hour later I had the worst four Wolves try the new adaptation, and they were suddenly a great deal better.
With the Major departed for the day, and not around to complain, I had the Wolves up on the barracks roof, sniping from 800yards, the worst lads now much better. And the front weight, that could be made from a half brick and a bit of wire.
Mally and his gang appeared at 2pm. ‘You’re keen, aren’t you?’ I teased.
‘Got a job in a few days.’
I was concerned. ‘What ... kind of job?’
‘Hostage swap, Northern Niger, done two before, all routine.’
I nodded; it was not the kind of work for Echo.
I had spent much of Sunday thinking about the Wolves, and this morning I had Tomo and Smitty teaching pistol work to four lads, a different four back with Captain Harris and on advanced map reading, to be with him all day, and tomorrow if necessary; I was determined to get them to the right standard. The rest were on long-axle jeep driving and maintenance.
That evening, at 6pm, a man turned up at the house, one of Bob’s. ‘Got a job for you, but ... it’s up to you if you want to do it, just you and Swifty.’
Swifty and I exchanged looks. ‘Naughty job then,’ Swifty noted.
The man opened a file. ‘Parker, Jason Parker, was Royal Engineers, applied to the SAS, passed selection, was then booted out after four months – for being a complete psycho. But since he had some excellent language skills, and was a first rate house burglar before he joined up, we recruited him. We sent him off to do a naughty job, or two, and he did well.
‘But then we got wind of illegal firearms at his house, an old farmhouse, and that he was talking to a journalist about selling his story.’
‘And how long has this nut job been with you?’ I asked.
‘Just six months.’
‘Not much of a story,’ Swifty noted.
‘We had a man take a sneak peak at the farmhouse, and he could see wires on a gate, trip wires in the bushes.’
‘Not something for the local police,’ I noted.
‘He’s in Essex, remote location, believed to have an old AK47, shotguns.’
‘And Bob would like the problem to go away,’ I thought out loud.
‘And soon,’ the man pressed.
I faced Swifty. ‘I can swap my tax disc with one of the old cars here, muddy the plates, be there after dark tonight, move in and have a look.’
Swifty nodded.
I faced Bob’s guy. ‘Address?’
He handed it over, and Swifty and I glanced at the man’s face, and his farmhouse, photos handed back.
‘Leave it with us, make sure no one is close by, monitor the local police radio.’
He nodded, packed up and left.
‘Rifles?’ Swifty asked.
‘Hell yes. He has one, so I’m not going at him with just a pistol.’
I went and found Bongo, and had him open up the armoury, two AKM issued, no paperwork, three full mags. ‘No questions, no paperwork,’ I told him, a finger raised. ‘Or you’re a civvy.’
He nodded.
‘Wait till the morning and tell everyone we had to go to London, to see Bob.’
I grabbed the keys for one of our beaten up old training cars and drove it around to the house, swapping tax discs. It would not hold up under scrutiny, but should do. Kit packed into holdalls, rifles in long holdalls, water and biscuits packed, we locked the house and drove to the gate.
‘Where you off in that piece of junk?’ MP Peter asked.
‘SAS lad up in Hereford has been blabbing, I’m going to give him a good kicking, don’t want my car seen. Cover for us, we were here all the time.’
He nodded, and I knew I could trust him.
>
We drove northeast past Cirencester, and across Oxfordshire towards the M40, down the M40 to the M25 and around London, stopping at a services. We bought large bottles of coke, plastic bags suitable for a body, bleach, two garden shovels, an ordnance survey map of Essex and some snacks.
Driving on in the dark, we exited the M25 and headed towards Hertfordshire before turning east, petrol topped up, paid in cash.
We reached our target at 11pm, a beauty spot and lake a mile south of our man’s farmhouse. Bags out, a good look around a dark empty car park, we lugged the heavy bags into the trees, and on two hundred yards, off the track and through mixed woodland, a spot chosen under a huge isolated tree.
Poncho down, lamp on, we stood on the poncho and stripped off, hardly a word spoken. Combats on, boots on, webbing on, rifles loaded and checked, gloves on, masks on. Leaving the poncho and its contents behind, we moved north as if on a job in the jungle, slowly and quietly.
I found the canal I wanted and followed it north till it turned east, a few ducks loudly flapping away in fright, and I knew where I was. Another two hundred yards and we eased across a fence, the fence now sat on our right being our man’s boundary fence.
A hundred yards on and we ran out of trees to hide behind. In front of us was a roughly-made concrete road, a gate – his gate, and we could see his farmhouse some two hundred yards away off to the right, a bedroom light on. After ten minutes the light went out.
‘Early riser,’ Swifty said. ‘He knows that if the police come it will be dawn, so at dawn he’s in these woods.’
‘Could be,’ I agreed. ‘Cover me.’
I inched slowly forwards across dirt and grass, and to the gate. Torch out, farm house glanced at, I had a quick look. Back in the trees, I said, ‘Wire on the gate handle, two shotgun cartridges in metal tubes. Nasty, but effective.’
‘Don’t this guy get any post in the mornings?’
‘Must be a post box further back.’
‘Either that, or the postman is dead – buried around here someplace.’
‘Back-up, I have an idea, and I don’t want to be here all night.’
Ten minutes later, Swifty said, ‘You got to be joking.’