by Geoff Wolak
‘I hope you two will get along,’ I teased.
‘We did before,’ Mac said.
‘I have a spare room you can use in my house over there,’ Moran offered his friend.
I greeted the Pathfinder men off their coach, all the faces familiar, and they were already in desert browns, large backpacks carried, SA80 carried. I dispatched them to the barracks to settle in, Moran and his old mate walking and chatting.
2 Squadron turned up half an hour later, Haines plus the Externals, no second flight, and I led them to the barracks, familiar beds grabbed on the lower level.
Mouri and Dicky arrived back with their two mates, all in the same estate car, their house re-occupied. ‘Picked a bad time to have a holiday,’ I told them. ‘Hope you kept fit.’
‘Always fit, Boss,’ Mouri told me with his same cheeky grin.
‘Get desert gear sorted tonight, we may leave soon.’
Dicky asked about Niger, so I sat in their lounge and filled them in for half an hour. Walking back to the barracks, I sat with the Pathfinders and chatted, and they asked about Niger as well, and downstairs I greeted five former Wolves, soon sat chatting to the 2 Squadron lads about the planned operation.
Everyone had been told be in desert kit at 9am, including webbing, rifles to be drawn.
At 9am they lined up outside the hangar, the Major and O’Leary stood watching, and I went up and down the lines noting bits of kit to alter. Some rifles needed cammo sleeves or a drop of brown paint, some men needed brown ponchos.
‘Don’t worry about black boots,’ I told them. ‘Ten minutes after getting there they won’t be black anymore.’
I swapped the 2 Squadron SA80 rifles for our folding stock AK47s, enough old AKMs for the Pathfinders. But we were short, so I had the Major make a request of Credenhil, for some AK47s in a hurry. The TA Major then offered us his, he had two dozen in the shed in a strong metal case, slides and firing pins in our armoury, so Major Bradley signed for them, the weapons issued.
Crab reminded me about the brown mats, now rolled up in plastic, and I had them issued, first to Echo, then the Pathfinders. 2 Squadron had mats that were beige, so that helped. I had everyone attach the small backpacks to webbing, the mats attached.
‘OK, listen up. Standard kit will be: bandolier if you have one, webbing, two water bottles, two brown ponchos, compass, notepad, pen and pencil, torch, spare battery. Those with sat phones check your spare 9volt batteries, and test the damn batteries.
‘Some of you have binoculars, we have five left over, and field telescopes on the way. When a team is sent off on a recon you take a telescope and binoculars, and you stay as far away from the bad boys as you can.
‘Make sure you have a map case or suitable plastic bag, check first aid kits, make sure you have a tourniquet – we have spares here, lots of them. Top left pocket always, little bit showing.
‘Pistols, you should all have pistols, if not let us know, and two spare mags. Now, those men missing a bit of kit, inside the hangar. The rest of you – it’s a hot day, so some acclimatization is in order, wearing the kit you’ll wear on the job, carrying what you will carry. In your teams, I want five laps brisk walk. Go!’
Many of the Wolves came into the hangar, needing bits of kit, and when ready I sent them around the track, “D” Squadron turning up in a coach around noon – Captain Hamble a surprise. I showed them to the barracks, to the top floor, and they’d be in with the Pathfinders. Kit dumped down, all of them displaying VEPR rifles, I sat and chatted to them.
‘You guys all did well on the three day,’ I noted.
‘Lowest score was me,’ Hamble admitted. ‘Eighty two.’ He pointed at two men. ‘Ninety four each.’
‘Then you won’t slow us down any,’ I told them.
‘All are over eighty seven,’ Hamble added. ‘Good with AK47 or VEPR. And we tackle a 24hr speed march once a month, same route you used to do, same PTIs.’
‘”A” Squadron pissed off?’ a man asked me.
‘Because you’re here ... and they’re not?’ I clarified.
‘We hear things.’
‘They ... were a bit trigger happy in Niger,’ I began. ‘If I see you taking pot shots at civilians for fun I’ll leave you in the fucking desert. We clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ came back from most of them.
‘If you like to shoot three year old girls, you’re with the wrong unit, so single well-aimed shots, make them count, don’t spray it around.’
‘Many of us worked with you before,’ Hamble noted. ‘And you have Crab and Duffy here?’
‘Yes, they run Stores, teach, help out. If anyone has a problem with them then he has a problem with me. I expect, gentlemen, you to be stone cold professionals. I expect ... you’re the men you see yourselves being when The Sun newspaper runs a story – heroes all.’
‘And the job?’ one asked.
‘We’ll sneak across the border from Morocco to Algeria, and try and find the bad boys, eyes on. The French will then attack, at least that’s the plan, but plans often go out the window when we get there. We might HALO in.’
‘And that walk in the desert you did?’
‘Not that hard. We slept in the heat of the day, not much water used up, and walked at night – when it was cool. Simple navigation, three days, piece of piss. Anyone could do it.’
‘So what went wrong in Niger?’
‘Mally and his men were swapping hostages, which is usually routine, and they go in unarmed. But one rival group shot up the exchange and grabbed them. We assaulted an old mine, where we thought Mally should have been, but found eight French hostages instead, so we had to hit the town quickly, just drove straight in and had a look through the window of the largest compound – a hell of a risk.’
‘I knew Robbo well, he was senior to me when I joined,’ one of the men put in.
‘He almost made it, stray round to the head.’
‘And if you hadn’t gone to get them,’ Hamble asked. ‘They’d be swapped later on?’
‘Unlikely, because the Islamists shot-up an arranged hostage swap; no one would risk approaching them after that. I wouldn’t, FCO wouldn’t trust them. Other kidnappers worked deals, these guys shot up the deal makers.
‘My orders were to go get our lads, so London wasn’t hopeful of getting them out, and the pilots had old gunshot wounds – no medical care. Those two pilots would have been dead inside three days.’
I pointed at the man who knew Robbo. ‘How’d you cope sleeping on the floor for a year with the cockroaches, shit food?’
‘Probably do something foolish and grab a gun of a guard and get killed. Better than just sitting there. Did five days in The Factory and I didn’t like that.’
I nodded. ‘Get your kit on, desert browns, webbing, rifles, and let’s check what extra kit you need.’
They turned up at the hangar as several of the groups ended their walk, all now sweating. Hamble pointed at the tourniquet in his shirt pocket, making me smile.
Crates of ammo turned up by truck, stacked ready to take, 7.62mm Russian standard, ration packs and – oddly enough – several large brown tents. When I checked, it had come from Credenhill, a surprise.
I put the Pathfinders on the range with Echo, a mini contest held as I sorted kit with “D” Squadron, a few of the Wolves still needing odd items.
At 5pm I gathered the Wolves, including Sasha and his four. ‘You’re going on a live job, and you’ve all been on a live job before, and you were in Morocco before, so this is nothing new. You’ll be working in support, but some of you may go over the border. All you need do is remember your training - and read the map right. ‘Nothing you do will be any different to the last exercise in Morocco, which is the whole point of such exercises. You coped with that, and this is no different. Now, how’ve things been since returning to your parent units?’ I pointed at the first man.
‘They took the piss a bit, saw the newspaper story, and then had me back driving trucks – so a
waste of what I learnt.’
I nodded, and pointed at the second man.
‘I got some shit, but they did want to know about the detail, and they had me plan a little exercise for the other lads, so not too bad.’
I pointed at the third man.
‘I put my papers in after the first day, fucking RSM was on my case.’
‘Talk to us before quitting, might be able to find some work for you.’
‘I fancied RAF Regiment.’
‘Why not, but there are people in there who will give you shit just the same.’
By sundown we had just about sorted kit for everyone, and everyone was now more or less uniform. Some of the “D” Squadron lads drove off, and came back with small military water cans, a suitable size for backpacks, twenty of them. I told everyone to meet at 9am, and I issued staggered times for meals.
At 9am, a clear day – hardly a cloud, I had Crab stood with his clipboard next to me. ‘Listen up. We have a day or two before we move, so we train, and it’s nice and warm – so that helps. And we train wearing what we would carry.
‘So, when I say go, Echo is in the pistol range, Wolves on the 25yard range, Pathfinders and 2 Squadron are walking around the track for an hour, “D” Squadron are on the long range. Then you swap, by coming here to see this clipboard.’
Crab held it up.
‘An hour’s break for lunch, then back at it. Tonight we have a film about the Algerian conflict. Half will watch it at 7pm, half at 9pm. Captain Moran with me, rest of you – to your assigned duties, dismissed.’
‘What about Max?’ Moran asked later.
‘Can’t release a story till it’s done,’ I told him.
‘Fine, then it’s our story, not what someone figures out and distorts – like those politicians.’
I gave it some thought, and called Max, to put him on standby.
In with the Major, we sat and went over lists of kit and supplies, and worked out what we would need to feed the men, how much local water would be needed per day.
The Major took a call, and then said, ‘MOD wants someone of Major rank along, so they volunteered me. Whitehall mandarins coming as well.’
‘There were two with us in Niger, and they just stood around looking dumb,’ I noted.
‘Bob doesn’t want to take risks,’ the Major scoffed. ‘But we’re under French operational control, so no one in the MOD knows what they’re doing, again.’
‘Maybe the French intel will be better than ours,’ Moran suggested.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ the Major fired back.
Bob called later, as I stood watching a team walk around the track. ‘We have planes. Tristars were booked or broken, so we have two 737s. They’re regular tourist planes, all modern and up to date, but we do have a Hercules for kit. Be at Brize Norton for 10am tomorrow.’
‘Nice air hostesses?’
‘Probably, so warn the lads, I don’t need shit off the airline. Oh, and the kit is supposed to be picked up tonight, so I told them to send trucks to you.’
‘OK, we’ll get ready.’
Phone away, I had Stores start putting kit on the apron ready, and all of the lads were told to bring their personal crates over, and to double up in their use. I had a few paperbacks in mine, Swifty had his puzzle books.
Trucks appeared at 8pm that evening, RAF staff from Brize Norton, and we assisted with the loading, Crab and Bongo stood with clipboards.
At the start of the film on Algeria I warned them that we would depart at 9am, and to be ready. And to be nice to the air hostesses, or else. Sat with Moran, I created a passenger manifest, and we split Echo across the two planes – just in case.
Final thing I did before going to bed was to call Max. He’d meet us at Brize Norton in the morning.
At 8am everyone started to gather, the Major turning up in desert brown and looking odd, a backpack with him. Crates were laid out for any final items, especially personnel pistols, SIGINT having forgotten a few items. SIGINT also had tents and camp beds, borrowed from the TA Major.
But on this trip we’d have French medics along, and supposedly full French logistical support, whatever that meant.
Three buses arrived at 9am, as well as our police escort, and the various teams were head-counted as we boarded, a fine day to be setting off, and para Pete had booked the airfield for a few days for civvy team drop practise – just an excitable puppy to worry about on landing.
A familiar route led to a familiar approach road, a familiar Departures Lounge. But this time we did have paperwork, just not the right paperwork, the Major getting irate with the RAF for ten minutes. Max was allowed in, finally, complaining about the RAF Police at the gate.
Familiar seats were taken, but as I peered out the window I saw a 737 land, and we were soon called forwards and onto the apron in a line, the first group soon heading up the steps and told to sit in the middle, over the wings, forty of us. We took up ten rows, being asked not to move since it would unbalance the plane, and we were soon climbing smoothly away, a four hour flight to look forwards to.
Looking at a map, Rizzo said, ‘Tenerife ain’t far, we could have a bit of a holiday there after.’
I told him, ‘If you do well, I’ll give you a half day off. Besides, you’re going to a place with way more sand than Tenerife.’
‘But no water, and no girls in bikinis, no cold beer.’
‘True, but the accommodation is way cheaper. And they’ll be no tourists to spoil things for you.’
Rizzo stared at me. ‘You don’t get the whole holiday thing, do you?’
We touched down at a familiar airport, local police waiting, as well as a few British Army officers, making me puzzle who they were. Ducking my head through the door, a smile from the nice young hostess, the heat hit me like a hairdryer to the face.
‘Fuck it’s warm,’ Swifty let out behind me.
‘You said that in Niger, but you enjoyed that little holiday.’
Squinting from the top of the steps I could see six Pumas, and two C-160 transports, many French soldiers and airmen moving about. They were here in force. At the bottom of the steps I was met by a British Major and a captain. I shook their hands.
‘We’re from the Fusiliers, came down in a hurry. We’re supposed to let the locals think it’s us here and not your lot,’ the major explained.
‘Good work, sir. And thanks, it may fool them.’
‘We have trucks and buses, and we were told to have a police escort. Oh, and the rest of the kit should be here soon by Hercules.’
‘All good, sir,’ I commended.
The locals moved our crates off the plane and to a truck as the lads sat in an air-conditioned bus, Max taking a few snaps.
‘Shall we get going?’ the major nudged.
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ I asked as the second 737 landed.
‘What’s that?’
‘Our main kit, like ... rifles, tents, rations, or do we stand around in the sand?’
‘Ah, see what you mean. Well, it should be here ... soon I guess.’
‘Then we wait. In the meantime ... any water, sir?’
‘I’ll sort some now.’
And we waited a full hot hour, the buses full of the teams – many asleep, the truck full of kit – its driver asleep, a second and third truck sent for, the Hercules finally touching down and taxiing around.
I got off the bus with the Major and observed as the kit was unloaded from the Hercules and placed aboard the new trucks, the local police asleep in the afternoon heat. Finally we were ready, and I waved the trucks off, the buses to follow.
At the turnoff for the range the bus halted and would go no further, as I had warned the Major, so we were walking the last mile, a few backpacks carried, some light crates between two men in rotation, a sweat worked up. A few of the lads helped Max with his heavy kit.
French major Liban greeted us, the area around the huts bu
sy. ‘You walk from the airport?’ he teased.
I shook his hand. ‘From the road.’ I pointed out our trucks sat waiting, and we unloaded the kit into one hut reserved for us. Crates opened, kit was soon handed out, names called, water issued from the French, and when the teams were ready I led them off, the Major to bed down in the tents with SIGINT.
As cracks sounded out - French soldiers on the range, we adopted a familiar sandy fence line, Henri hugging a few dusty French soldiers, greetings exchanged. Flysheet up, rubber mat down, I made a home for my team - Swifty, Moran and Mahoney - ponchos down.
Under the sheet, Swifty sighed and lay down. ‘This seems familiar. It’s like we wuz only here a few weeks ago. But it kind of evens itself out.’
‘What does?’ Mahoney asked as he got comfy, backpack off as rifle fire sounded out.
‘Back in GL4 I have a posh house, here we have sand, so – overall – it averages itself out.’
‘A good outlook,’ I commended, sipping my water.
I patrolled the line, told them all to check kit, and I wandered down to the huts with two Wolves. Ammo boxes grabbed, I sent the Wolves back up. Sat on a bed in a hut, I opened a wooden ammo box, Russian Cyrillic writing on it, peeled back the foil, and started loading magazines as Crab and Duffy, Batman and Robin, sorted through the kit and supplies.
Stocked up, pistol on, spare magazines checked, I felt better. I felt dressed, and not naked, and I stepped to the dated brown tents, those tents now being erected by SIGINT with some help from the French.
Inside the first one I found the Major. ‘You’ll cook in here, sir, best use them at night. Sleep from 11am to 3pm most days, or you will all drop.’
The Major wiped his brow. ‘It is damn hot.’
‘Over forty, sir, so be careful. Lots of water. Captain Harris, when you have your home set-up, find your French opposite number and get the latest intel and plan, if there is a plan that is.’
Back up the range, squinting in the bright sun, my cap pulled down, I observed the French firing for a minute before I patrolled the line, the long line of brown ponchos, most men loading loose rounds to magazines.