Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Make sure there’s no sand in your magazines, or you will get stoppages!’ I shouted. ‘Be the professionals you’re supposed to be.’

  When the firing eased, the French captain who had been utilising the range came and found me. ‘We go. You shoot.’ He nodded and walked off.

  ‘2 Squadron, in the butts for half an hour please. Test your radios first!’

  They finished loading magazines, and moved off as a group. ‘Rocko, your team, zero weapons, ten rounds.’

  As the cracks sounded out, I sat and dug a hole, four of us cross-legged as we cooked, the sun low on the horizon, rifles across legs as usual. As we cooked, the French walked back and forth along the range, from the huts to the dummy village.

  The French major walked over, and I stood. ‘We are over the end,’ he said.

  Moran questioned him, and explained, ‘The main French camp is in the abandoned village.’

  I told the French major, ‘We meet in the morning, make some plans.’

  He nodded, a few sentences exchanged with Moran, and off he went.

  ‘Makes it hard to practise storming the place,’ Mahoney noted.

  ‘Not sure what the plan is yet,’ I told them. ‘Might not be any storming of anything.’

  Half an hour later, sat on the firing point with our brews and chatting, a line of French Pumas loudly announced their arrival from the airport, touching down beyond the butts and then flying off. The last but one Puma broke formation, and as we watched it set down, but it hit way too hard, the tail broken off.

  I dropped my brew and rifle and ran, kicking up sand, people wondering why I was sprinting. I straddled the low fence at the same time as French soldiers, the Puma’s rotors winding down, crewmen jumping out. The doors were opened by French soldiers, which I shoved out the way, grabbing the first man and dragging him away, Swifty and Moran there a moment later.

  Kneeling over my limp soldier, I could see something was very wrong. He had a pulse and was breathing, his eyes fixed and terrified, and as I reached around behind his neck I could feel the break. He was paralysed.

  ‘Moran, tell them the soldiers are paralysed!’

  Moran shouted orders in French, other wounded soldiers dragged off and into the sand, and I left my wounded man there, soon lifting a young soldier over my shoulder and away from the helicopter. Setting him down in the sand, pandemonium breaking out behind me, shouts and screams, I could see a dislocated shoulder. Testing his limbs, it was obvious that he had broken a hip badly, plus his lower leg.

  I had hardly noticed the second Puma setting down till it threw sand everywhere. ‘Moran, get them on the second Puma, they’re critical!’

  Moran shouted orders, four French medics having appeared from somewhere.

  I grabbed a medic captain. ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They have broken backs, broken hip and internal bleeding, you have only half an hour with some to get to hospital.’

  The captain shouted orders with Moran, many hands lifting injured men, five young soldiers moved to the waiting Puma, which took off after the medic captain frantically waved it up.

  The sand storm caused us to look away, and I walked back towards the fence, dozens of French soldiers now stood here, the crew of the Puma having got out in one piece. Over the fence, Max taking snaps, I looked back, and waited for Swifty and Moran to catch up, Mahoney stood there, and we walked back together.

  ‘Nice fucking safe helicopters!’ Rocko complained.

  I stopped and glanced back, the rotors of the damaged Puma still turning slowly, all of the British stood facing the action. I picked up my rifle and checked it, little I could say to their worried looks. Even Tomo was lost for a witty comment.

  ‘The soldiers?’ Henri asked.

  I took in the faces, and glanced back at the Puma. ‘Most have broken backs, paralysed.’

  He cursed loudly, throwing a hand in the air, and he stormed up to a French captain, shouting away, his tirade not aimed at the Captain, who could only shrug and apologise.

  ‘Captain Moran, form up the British for a route march please. Echo, form up, ready to move out.’

  Heads lowered, faces long, they got ready.

  ‘Sasha, form up the Wolves. “D” Squadron, ready for a route march please.’

  When they were ready, I said, ‘Captain Moran, around the hill, stop for a brew, no hurry. Torches on the way back in case the French are trigger happy. Move out.’

  Orders were shouted, sand kicked up, and off they went.

  I lifted my phone and called Bob. ‘At home?’

  ‘Yes, just sat doing some work.’

  ‘Listen, French Puma just went down- ’

  ‘Already, you’ve only been there an hour!’

  ‘Yep, and the young French soldiers were all paralysed, my lot not too happy, and all now concerned about French helicopters.’

  ‘And me too now. There is HMS Fearless, she leaves port tonight, or this afternoon, off to Ascension for an exercise. She could assist, we did consider her. Could be offshore in two days.’

  ‘Marines on board?’

  ‘Yes, lots of them.’

  ‘Then they’d probably appreciate some training, I’m sure the MOD would agree.’

  ‘Yes, they tend to look favourably on your exercises. I’ll make some calls.’

  Phone away, I walked down to the huts, past the bent Puma, the Major stood staring at it from in front of a tent.

  ‘I saw you run for it. What state are those French soldiers in?’

  ‘Most are paralysed, a few critical.’

  ‘We just bloody got here, and now this!’

  ‘Be a few more dead French soldiers before this operation winds down. They’ll storm villages, and they’ll fly in, being heard and seen.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  ‘I spoke to Bob, and HMS Fearless is available, so we might get some Sea Kings.’

  ‘Better bet, yes.’

  A French captain came and asked for me as we lost the daylight, for a command meeting. I grabbed Captain Harris, and with the Major we walked up the hot dusty range and down into the dummy village, only now seeing the extent of the tented city thrown up. Our guide led us to a large tent with a wooden sign in French, and we ducked in.

  Inside, the tent brightly lit, we found a dozen senior French officers stood around, the French major of the 1st Battalion Paras there, signallers sat at desks operating radios, a few spy types in civvy clothes, and I recognised one of my Bob’s people, a nod given.

  I saluted the French colonel, the man displaying a weather-worn old face under grey hair.

  ‘Welcome, Captain Wilco,’ he said in reasonable English, stood over a map board. ‘Your men are settled in?’

  ‘My men ... just witnessed your Puma going down, young French soldiers paralysed. They are anything other than settled, and have seen many people killed in simple helicopter crashes.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘Indeed, we have lost many men that way.’

  ‘You have sentries out, sir, armed?’

  ‘We do, yes, wary of local men.’

  ‘Notify them now, please, that my men are out walking around the hill. We don’t need the men here firing on each other.’

  The colonel gave orders to a captain, who stepped out. Facing me, he began, ‘We hope to use your men to get close to the target locations, and to report to us the movements.’

  ‘That is what we’re good at, sir. But what happens when we report the target men in a village?’

  ‘Then we will attack at dawn with a large force.’

  I gave that some thought, and nodded my head as I stared at the map. ‘How many men are you looking for, sir?’

  ‘The leadership.’

  ‘So a handful of men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If your plan is to assault mountain villages by road and helicopter, then I’ll be pulling my men out.’ He straightened, surprised. ‘Not because we risk casualties, but bec
ause I have no wish to watch your men getting killed; I’ve seen enough French soldiers killed through the stupidity of their officers.’

  Eyes widened, and I could feel the Major stiffen.

  ‘Not far from here, I was sat on a hill top when Major Ducat sent in a large force, despite my warnings. The lives of those men could have been saved, and a great deal of time and effort went into the training of those men. Your plan is a fuck-up waiting to happen, a bad newspaper headline, grieving families. Question is ... do you give a fuck about your men, sir, or follow Paris?’

  A deathly quiet hung in the tent, Bob’s guy hiding his grin.

  The colonel stared back, but then lowered his gaze to the map. ‘You have an alternate suggestion, Captain?’

  ‘For a job like this you send five men, not fifty. You sneak up, you shoot the target men from four hundred yards out, and withdraw. This is special forces terrain, small team tactics, not showing the Algerians how big your cock is just to please Paris.’

  The colonel blinked.

  I added, ‘Major Ducat died in a car crash, maybe with a little help from his own men. Let’s hope the men here don’t want to push your car over a cliff, Colonel.’

  The colonel began, ‘You seem to be well aware ... of the restrictions placed on us by Paris. So, how would you do this?’

  ‘We send an advanced recon team, British and French, and if the opportunity arrives ... we accidentally get the job done and withdraw. Paris cannot ask you to kill the same man twice, and you can blame my men for being ... overly keen.’

  He hid his smile. ‘Since Paris agrees you such an advance recon, they cannot argue with it. So, how would you proceed?’

  ‘When we know the target villages, eight men go forwards. Behind them, a mile away, sit ten men, behind them, ten miles away, are twenty men – just in case. And I would never send a helicopter over the border unless for medivac. Any helicopters seen will be reported, aircraft as well, but a HALO insert is possible, I’d need to see the terrain.’

  He pointed with a pen. ‘The highest priority target is the leadership found in this mountain village.’

  I had a look at the map. ‘Here, east of that village twenty miles, is open desert, a long straight road. We land by plane at night, walk west. That plane flies high, drops down, no broken ankles from a parachute drop. Can you get a plane like a Skyvan?’

  Bob’s guy cut in, ‘I saw suitable aircraft at the main airport; they could be hired.’

  ‘Then hire them quickly, helicopters would be a bad idea. When you have them, we go.’

  The colonel nodded, a glance at the Major. ‘Good. And next time, Captain, don’t hold back, please speak your mind.’ The assembled officers laughed. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow,’ the colonel finally told me.

  I saluted, the Major and Captain Harris copying, and we shuffled out, soon shuffling across the sand in the dark.

  Twenty yards away, Captain Harris sighed. ‘You told him.’

  The Major put in, ‘Fuck up waiting to happen. Helicopter assault on a mountain village? Which text book did he get that one from? The gunmen need ten seconds to wake up and start shooting out their bedroom windows, RPGs fired at helicopters.’ After a while, the Major said, ‘You OK?’

  ‘That colonel reminded me a bit of Ducat, and that makes me angry, to throw away lives like that.’

  ‘So it should, yes,’ the Major agreed. ‘You warned them well enough.’

  Back at the tent, I had a look at the map, at the village in question. ‘It’s high up, nasty gorges, single road, impossible to get near using a vehicle. And where the fuck would a helicopter land on those rocks?’ I lifted my head to captain Harris. ‘Try and get photos of that village, surrounding area, that’s the priority.’ I lifted my phone, punched in a number and stepped out.

  ‘O’Leary here.’

  ‘It’s Wilco. Try and get me our two RAF Skyvan pilots, send them down as fast as possible – provided they want to come, they’re not always that keen.’

  ‘Will do, I’ll call them now.’

  Back inside, we got a brew on, Batman and Robin acting as cooks and waiters.

  Bob’s man stepped in and sat near me on a flimsy fold-out chair, smirking. ‘They’ve sent for planes, short landing, be here tomorrow, and French pilots.’

  ‘I sent for ours as well.’

  ‘You kicked his balls.’ He waited, people turning to me.

  I shrugged. ‘Had to be done. I don’t care so much about the newspaper headline, but fifty dead French soldiers is a waste.’

  He nodded. ‘You helped him, because Paris tied his hands. And you made a few new friends in that tent. French special forces don’t work like the SAS, they follow orders to the letter, even the dumb orders.’

  I nodded. ‘Lads were concerned about using French helicopters, they’ve seen enough go down. They’d rather walk in.’

  The British contingent walked in half an hour later, and I met them near the firing point, gathering them together in the available moonlight. When they were all around, I stood above their dark outlines.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the French colonel in charge here, and with London, and we have planes on the way, as well as HMS Fearless and its Sea King helicopters.

  ‘As it stands, the plan is to fly over in something like a Skyvan, land on a road well away from the bad boys and walk in, helicopters and planes on standby for medivac if need be. Tomorrow we’ll get some training in, some acclimatisation, waiting on a plane or two.

  ‘Get some food in you, check kit and stock up, don’t wander too far – there are French sentries posted, but do avail yourselves of the hotel piano bar.’

  Laughing, they headed off to their patches of sand.

  I ducked under my flysheet, torch on, and got my metal tin out. ‘Who’s turn is it?’

  ‘Mine,’ Swifty said as we shuffled under the flap and to our hole in the sand.

  ‘Anything of interest out there?’ I casually asked as Moran and Mahoney sat cross-legged.

  ‘Could see the size of the French camp from the high ground,’ Moran noted. ‘What they all here for?’

  ‘Dick measuring,’ I said. ‘But I’ll try and scale them down tomorrow, had a word with the man in charge earlier.’

  I got everyone up at 6am, some less than fresh, and with some food in them, teas down throats, I led them off at a brisk pace, a few of the French stirring, the French sentries waved at.

  Forty minutes hard slog brought us to the rear of the hill, the amber glow to the east signifying the start of the new day. I kept going, around the hill and down, and past the French camp on the north side.

  Back at the fence, I ordered 2 Squadron into the butts first, radios tested, head targets to be used, but to move left or right every five seconds, eight targets.

  ‘OK, “D” Squadron first, 400yards, head targets, four rounds. Yes, head targets. You have five seconds before the target moves left or right. Take up positions in the lanes, get ready.’

  They lay down as the rest of the men washed or drank water, and after four rounds per man Haines radioed the score. ‘Good shooting, gentlemen. Pathfinders!’

  The Pathfinders scores were down on “D” Squadron, but the Wolves did well. Echo did very well, and I swapped 2 Squadron in the butts with Echo lads. Since 2 Squadron had the folding stock AK47s they were sent to 300yards, and did OK, everyone else firing again, scores tallied.

  At 10am we handed the range to the French, the British contingent told to rest from 11am to 3pm, but not here. I had Rocko lead them off to the far side of the hill, ponchos taken, twigs taken.

  As they headed off I travelled to the airfield with Moran, the Major and Captain Harris, where we found three suitable aircraft sat waiting, French pilots awaiting something to do.

  In the mini-command room I gave the pilots the co-ordinates we had used before for a para drop exercise, and they would touch and go twice on that road and return, a jeep dispatched with medics just in case. I had given the pilots explicit
instructions that they were to corkscrew from 10,000ft, land and stop, ten seconds and go.

  They exchanged words and shrugs, then headed out to check aircraft, and to wait till the jeep was in place. We observed them take off, two Nomads and a Skyvan, and they returned little more than half an hour later, all down safely.

  The pilots came to us, their comments noted, but all were happy enough. Now I told them to have twelve French soldiers in the back of each plane. They rounded up spare men, of which there were plenty, and took off again, the jeep awaiting their return.

  On the first landing the soldiers ran out, and on the second they ran aboard, the poor soldiers terrified of the initial corkscrew down. When the pilots returned, the French colonel was waiting with some of his staff, the pilots saluting and reporting what they had done.

  The colonel turned to me. ‘They believe it quite practical.’

  ‘Explain to them, sir, that they would do it at night, but that at night the roads stand out quite clearly.’

  He explained it, getting a few shrugs, a few faces pulled.

  I began, ‘Sir, we can move on the first target tonight.’

  ‘Should we not move on more than one at a time? They will know.’

  ‘They will know there was a shoot-out, but not see any French soldiers or hear helicopters. So I would say we could move on other targets later well enough. These men are hiding away in the strongholds, so ... where else would they go? They have nowhere else more safe, sir.’

  ‘True. So, we see the reaction to the first attack.’

  ‘We leave at 1am, sir, using these three planes, your helicopters on standby for medivac, these planes on standby for extraction and medivac, please have a doctor in each plane or helicopter, sir.’

  He nodded.

  Back at the Major’s tent, we studied the map. Our landing zone was open desert, which was bad in that we may be spotted, good in that we’d see anyone a long way off – even at night. We’d have three hours or so before sun-up to get to the foothills, avoiding a small village to the south of the planned route we’d take.

  Once into the foothills we would have a steep climb to a plateau, three miles of plateau – with a habitation at the northern end, then a steep-sided valley. Onwards up the other side, and a four mile climb ever upwards, coming at the target village from the east, the village’s access road being on the west and the south.