Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Will do. Where are you now?’

  ‘Walking back to the salt flats, be there in the morning, send the Skyvan then.’

  ‘OK, talk later.’

  I called Bob as we plodded on at a fast pace, kicking up sand towards a flat expanse of nothing. ‘It’s Wilco, we got Mally’s men plus two, one dead, two pilots – half dead, they may make it, and we got eight French hostages, so alert the French, have them send a plane to the strip for them.’

  ‘Will do. Any wounded?’

  ‘A few minor wounds.’

  ‘Sounds like it went off well.’

  ‘Could have gone better, we hit the mine and found the French, no sign of Mally, so we had to hit the town, a hell of a risk. We were lucky, but after hitting the mine they would have killed Mally and the hostages, so few choices.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Plodding across the desert, a long walk till a dawn pickup. And Bob, when we left that town the “A” Squadron lads sprayed it a bit, I saw kids hit.’

  ‘That could best be avoided. I’ll try and keep a lid on it.’

  An hour later, and I called a halt, my arm hurting. I had Swifty cut the sleeve and get some antibiotic cream in, and he injected me with a quarter dose, the wound taped up, but there was something in the muscle, I could feel it.

  I stood. ‘Listen up, it’s getting hot, so sleep for a few hours, ponchos out, you know the drill. Rocko, first stag, an hour, then swap. Watch our tracks to the east.’

  After some dried biscuits and chocolate, a good drink of warm water taken, I lay down and pulled my poncho over me, my rifle butt buried and the poncho clipped on the telescopic sight.

  Swifty woke me at 4pm, and it seemed that we had all slept well in the midday heat. Getting up, poncho away, I took in the bleak shimmering horizon, bending and stretching for a minute as the lads sipped water.

  ‘Let’s be having you!’ I shouted. ‘Long way to go!’ They got ready, a few men taking a pee. ‘Gather around!’ I called, and there dusty outlines closed in. I took a moment. ‘Back at the town, the “A” squadron lads in the truck sprayed it around a bit, and as we left the town I saw a few kids shot.’

  ‘Those idiots,’ Moran hissed.

  ‘There could be issues, so careful what you say, and careful what you say to “A” Squadron, they’re not as ... refined on the trigger as we are. One of the “E” Squadron lads was killed, head shot, Robbo I think they called him, so our well thought out plan for extracting them may come in for some criticism.’

  ‘What plan?’ Rizzo asked.

  ‘Exactly, we had none.’

  ‘We got all bar one out, and the French hostages, so good enough,’ Rocko put in, others agreeing. ‘Fucking intel should have put us in the right spot.’

  ‘Do we have to take regulars along?’ Slider asked, wiping his brow. ‘I could see them blasting away at nothing in particular.’

  ‘We may review things, but they need to learn. In the mean time, one foot in front of the other, we have a long walk.’ I led them off.

  ‘Tomo for Wilco,’ crackled over the radio.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

  Laughter filled the desert as we walked towards the setting sun, a good navigational aid, and we maintained a good pace as the temperature dropped. At midnight I halted the lads for a brew.

  At 2am we found again the Foreign Legion skeleton and rifle, stopping to stare down at it, torches used.

  I said, ‘Dig him up, bag him up, he’s going home. His great grand kids may be alive.’

  With the bones bagged up, his water bottle, ID tags and some papers, Swifty found a second body.

  ‘We take it?’ his dark outline asked.

  ‘Why not, it’s just bones,’ I responded.

  An hour later, and we had six skeletons, a search revealing no further bones nearby. Dated bolt-action rifles were placed across men’s backs, as well as bones and identifying items, and we finally plodded off, following our tracks.

  Using a torch, Moran read a letter. ‘1884, October 12th,’ he read out loud. ‘All hope is lost, and we are lost to the desert. We skirmished with the Bedouin two days hence, and the men grow weary from wounds. We try and carry them, but we grow weary also.

  ‘I hope these words reach you, my darling, and that you forgive me for leaving you, and that god forgives me for what I do next. We have decided that I shall use my revolver on the final five men, and then on myself, save dying from thirst.’

  ‘Poor fuckers,’ Swifty let out.

  ‘They’ll get a funeral in France,’ I said. ‘A bit late, but they get a gravestone at least.’

  ‘How many more like that around here?’ Swifty thought out loud.

  ‘Thousands,’ I said.

  Plodding on was easy enough, the men rested and in good spirits, many conversations going on at the same time, no worry about being heard out here.

  At 4am we found the HALO bag, a sudden end to our journey, and we checked the water bottles, finding them cool to drink.

  I took out my sat phone, but then put it away. ‘Get a brew on, next bus ain’t due for hours.’

  I sat with Swifty and Moran, hole dug, hexamine cooker in, tin full of water, and under the bright stars we made tea and sat chatting, plastic bags full of bones near many men.

  As the dawn came up, the sky changing slowly from black to dark blue, to grey, I made a call.

  ‘Captain Harris,’ came a sleepy voice.

  ‘It’s Wilco, we’re at the salt flats.’

  ‘Skyvan is knackered, Islander failed to return from Niger – so far at least.’

  ‘Then I guess we’re walking, be back in a day.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, no big deal, but we’re carrying six dead French soldiers.’

  ‘Dead French soldiers, what the hell happened?’

  ‘The officer, he shot his men when they ran low on luck, and then shot himself.’

  ‘My god, I’ll let the French here know. What unit are they?’

  ‘Foreign Legion, 1884.’

  ‘1884?’

  ‘Yep, been dead a long, long time, we’re bringing their bones back.’

  ‘Christ, I thought it was recent.’

  I laughed. ‘What happened with our hostages?’

  ‘Wounded were worked on by the medics, flown straight down to Niger from here, plus Mally and his men, and a wounded “A” Squadron man. Oh, and Mahoney. They’re all at some military hospital in Niger.’

  ‘And the French hostages?’

  ‘Were picked up by a French transport late yesterday. They all looked OK, medics checked them over. You sure about walking?’

  ‘Got an alternative?’

  ‘Jeeps could come out.’

  ‘Road is just as far as you are. Besides, it’s good practise. I’ll give you updates. Wilco out.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, Skyvan is broken, Islander is in Niger, failed to return, so we’re walking, thirty miles. Tomo, we’re not nearly there yet.’

  Laughter filled the cool morning air.

  After the warm brew, biscuits nibbled on, chocolate downed, we set off across the salt flats at great speed, and I rattled as I carried the bag of bones on my webbing. The men slept noon till 4pm, after which we pushed on at a fast pace, and a long twenty eight hours later we walked into the strip, none of my lads suffering.

  The French officer in charge met us with Captain Harris and two lost-looking medics, and we piled bones and rifles at the French officer’s feet, the man amazed that we had carried the remains sixty miles across the desert. There was no Skyvan or Islander to be seen, so we were not going anywhere fast. There was no sign of “A” Squadron either, so they must have pinched our ride, and then broken it. Our MOD mandarin had also gone.

  Flysheet up, ponchos down, we rebuilt our homes. Sat under the sheet, I called the Major.

  ‘Wilco? Still in one piece?’

  ‘Yes, sir, all well, but M
ahoney has a few busted ribs.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. And one of Mally’s dead, one “A” Squadron.’

  ‘No “A” Squadron lads dead, sir.’

  ‘Yes, died in hospital.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Blood clot, they said.’

  ‘Shit, he just had a scrape, but it can happen. Anything in the papers, sir?’

  ‘Yes, SAS rescue of hostages in Niger, little detail.’

  ‘Best to keep it that way, “A” Squadron were trigger happy, a few kids hit.’

  ‘That could best be kept out the press.’

  I slept for a few hours, my boots off, my feet drying out, but shouts roused me. I plodded out barefoot, rifle in hand. The French officer in charge explained to Moran that a French transport was coming for the bones, but could take us out, to Morocco.

  I stepped away and called Bob. ‘It’s Wilco. Listen, our planes are knackered and not here, but there’s a French transport that could drop us in Morocco.’

  ‘You’d all be together on one plane, a French plane.’

  ‘We’ll take the risk, or wait here a week. What’s the news on our planes?’

  ‘Both unserviceable.’

  ‘So send a plane to Morocco for us, we’ll be there by the early hours, and recall SIGINT from Niger, and our chutes.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me, but don’t crash in the desert.’

  With my feet dusted off, socks on, boots on, I had the lads move the crates from the shed and onto the tarmac ready, ponchos taken down, a brew put on as we waited. I told the remaining medics and Captain Harris to pack up quickly.

  Before the sun set a C-160 landed and taxied around, a few French officers stepping down the ramp.

  They shook my hand. ‘We thank you for what you did. Bravo, Cap-ee-tan, bravo.’

  I was not sure what he meant. ‘Couldn’t leave them behind after we found them. Can we get a ride with you, we’re stuck here?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A nod from me, and the lads started to load the crates, the French assisting but, as I watched, the French opened out cardboard coffins and placed the bones inside, along with rifles, a small ceremony held, salutes given. And he had thanked me for the bones, not the hostages, leaving me scratching my head.

  Coffins loaded, flags draped over them, we took seats, weapons unloaded, and we got comfy after I performed a headcount. I finally drifted off to sleep.

  Henri nudged me awake, and then shouted in my ear. ‘Paris!’

  ‘Paris?’ I queried.

  He nodded.

  ‘Morocco?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I wrote a note and passed it to the lads, those awake, shrugs sent my way, and as I peered down I could see a coastline. Bob would be miffed at sending a plane to Morocco, the waste and the expense. His bean counters would be mad at me, but I would blame the French.

  All of us made use on the plane’s small toilet, but the French crewmen did provide croissants and coffee.

  Time dragged on, and I could not sleep, my sexy lady medic asleep, some cleavage showing. I felt another mistake coming on.

  After an hour of buffeting through bad weather we dropped through the cloud, and to a modern city airport, making me stare at it. It was not a military base. Touching down, we taxied past huge 747s, and to a quiet part of the airport, lots of police cars and vans, a few military trucks, a collection of waiting military officers and armed men.

  Brakes on, ramp powering down, we were back in a temperate climate, the lads all puzzled. I waved them up, sorted out a few uniforms, and we walked off as a lose formation, a rabble as usual, Henri and Jacque at the front. I had made sure everyone had a cap on, and pulled mine down in case of cameras.

  I saw no hand cameras, but TV cameras. They were not focused on us, they filmed the cardboard coffins being brought off the plane, Henri having saluted the senior officer and now answering questions.

  The medics and SIGINT looked a bit lost, Henri finally calling me forwards. I saluted the senior officer.

  ‘We thank you for returning the sons of France to us.’ And he kissed me on both cheeks.

  ‘Pleasure, sir, I hope they get a grave stone, and maybe some relatives still alive.’

  He pointed at a bus, some thirty people on it and staring this way. ‘We had the names sent from Mali, many great grand children here, some in other cities notified. May we film you from behind?’

  I nodded. ‘Please be careful with our identity, sir.’

  A junior officer with a box handed out sunglasses, the lads all soon looking like mobsters, the TV cameras filming us from behind or the side.

  They led us to a room, food and drink waiting, and we still had rifles in left hands. I just hoped none had grenades on them. I froze. ‘How many have grenades left?’ I whispered.

  They all did.

  ‘Shit,’ I let out, and called over an officer. ‘Bring a box, we want to hand in ammunition and grenades.’

  He shocked upright, and quickly fetched a box, our grenades discretely placed in, and all ammo, the heavy box rushed outside, Moran looking as embarrassed as I felt.

  A photographer stepped in, a military photographer, so I put my sunglasses back on, the lads copying, and all of us now looked right ridiculous as the President stepped in with his posse.

  Henri and Jacque saluted, soon in a detailed conversation with the President, snaps taken. The President thanked them, and moved along the line to me, Henri translating.

  ‘We thank you once again for rescuing our hostages in Niger, and for this extraordinary find in the desert. And they say you walked sixty miles, across the desert...’

  ‘We slept during the hot hours, and walked at night, sir. Three days.’

  ‘Incredible, yes. And you found our Legionnaires halfway?’

  ‘Yes, sir, so we brought them back, otherwise they would have never had a proper burial.’

  ‘They will have a military burial now, full honours, all of France is watching.’

  ‘Apologies for our dress and ... smell, we came direct.’

  He laughed. ‘No problem, Captain.’

  With the President and his posse gone, I called Bob.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, I was about to call you. Are you in Paris perhaps?’

  ‘Just been thanked by the President himself.’

  ‘That sneaky shit, he diverted the plane, and he’s milking it.’

  I laughed. ‘Not like you’d do that.’

  ‘Since you work for me, I’m entitled to – he isn’t. Prime Minister is hopping mad.’

  ‘No big deal, good relations and all that.’

  ‘They’re reporting your patrol as being six French and six English!’

  I laughed loudly. ‘Ask for some favours, Bob, twist their arms. But how do we get home, Eurostar train perhaps?’

  ‘There’s a plane on the way, 737.’

  ‘All travelling together, again.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Did you send a plane to Morocco?’

  ‘It was delayed, RAF Tristar, then we cancelled it.’

  ‘So you can’t bill me, not our fault.’

  ‘You’re getting more publicity out of this in France than in the UK, but the BBC just started mentioning it.’

  ‘And “A” Squadron?’

  ‘Still sat in Niger, awaiting a Hercules.’

  ‘Good enough for them, nice comfy ride home.’

  Our 737 was for just us and our kit, less grenades and ammo, and we made good time to Bristol Airport, the hostess a bit put off by our dusty uniforms, and by the smell. My sexy medic was looking less than fresh, and very self conscious.

  Off the plane we found two green RAF buses, kit loaded by hand, and off we set north, a long hour along crap roads to get back to GL4. I was ready for a shower and bed, my arm could wait.

  Kit unloaded, we left it to Batman and Robin, Crab and Duffy to sort out, and someone would need to explain to Bongo the loss of more than a hundred magazines. S
wifty and I walked across the airfield directly, Moran close behind, and I grabbed the shower first, sand everywhere, my arm stinging.

  Downstairs, in the kitchen, a tired Swifty handed me a brew and I sat quietly. ‘Did I say, “A” Squadron lad, wounded, got a blood clot and died in hospital.’

  ‘We’ll have Rawlson whinging.’

  I sighed. ‘I used his men without calling him, so yeah.’

  He sipped his tea. ‘French made a show of it.’

  ‘They always do, big fuss about old war graves, all over the French news.’ I sipped my tea. ‘That walk was easy.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘If you’re fit, enough water, got a compass, what’s the issue?’ I posed.

  ‘People without any of those things, that’s the issue.’

  I nodded, and sipped my tea, soon in bed, an appointment with a surgeon on the cards.

  After a brief yet painful episode at Swindon General Hospital the next morning, police stood observing, I was driven back, chatting to MP Peter.

  ‘All well?’ the Major asked as I sat with him.

  ‘Bit of stone ricochet.’

  The Major answered the phone. ‘Yes, he just got back from the hospital. Right, sir.’ Phone down, the Major said, ‘Colonel on his way down.’

  ‘He mad about his dead trooper?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Unknown, but a death is a death, in this case an odd death. I’d say the hospital was at fault, or the RAF medics, not you.’

  ‘I used his men to storm that town without checking with him.’

  ‘This man was injured at the mine I understand.’

  I nodded, thinking. ‘Could have gone better, but intel was sketchy.’

  ‘Intel always is sketchy, that’s the problem. Should call if guesswork ... not intel.’

  ‘What happened with the Wolves?’

  ‘Bob came down with the top brass, a bit of a ceremony, arm badges handed out, bit of a chat. Four are still here, the Russian speakers. Been having bleeding singing lessons.’

  I smiled. ‘For undercover work.’

  ‘Was Mally at fault?’

  ‘No, not at all. He went in unarmed, as told to do so by the FCO, and if he had been armed and fired back he would be dead.’