by Geoff Wolak
At 11am I was stood near the firing point, thinking about turning in myself before it grew too hot, but the distant drone of helicopters caused me to search them out on the horizon. From the west came three Sea King helicopters stalking in low; the Royal Marines.
The helicopters roared over me, turning and landing on the range, a dust cloud thrown up. I closed my eyes and turned away. When I looked back, the helicopters departing, three platoons of men were knelt on the range. I waved them over. They ran in and knelt, wary of their surroundings, a good number of GPMGs to hand.
The captain in charge came up to me. ‘Looking for Captain Wilco.’
‘You found him.’ I shook his hand.
‘Can you keep the bloody sound down!’ came Rocko’s voice behind me.
I turned my head. ‘That was the Marines, come to protect you while you sleep.’
‘Then tell the bloody Marines to keep the sound down!’
Smiling, I turned back to the captain. ‘He’s grumpy when his sleep is interrupted, and we were up all night, irregulars beyond the wire shooting at us, mortars coming in.’
‘We got some of the detail, small attack at some airfield near here, a few minor wounds.’
‘Algerian sympathisers. We shot their leader over the border, so they ain’t being very sympathetic to us.’
‘Where do you want us?’
I pointed. ‘That way is north, gentlemen. So, when I say go, first platoon on the north wire, spread out in pairs, ponchos tied to the fence, get under then or you’ll cook alive. Second platoon on the south fence, same deal, third platoon down in the butts, some shade and some cover from mortars coming in.
‘I suggest ... six or eight hour rotations with the teams in the butts, who can sleep and rest, cook food. It’s going to be a long day, followed by a long night, so pace yourselves.
‘Now listen up. Don’t shoot at soldiers in uniform, there are French soldiers here. Don’t shoot at police officers, the bad boys wear civvy dress. If you see someone suspicious sneaking up on the wire, fire a warning shot at his feet. If he opens up on you, shoot the fucker – but do not break cover and go out to them.
‘Right, one man from each team stay here, we’ll get you some fresh water, rest of you – disperse.’
The captain shouted orders, the three platoons heading off. I led the captain and the three men down to Crab, water issued. I left the captain with Major Bradley for a chat, and wandered back up.
Finding the French captain with his radio man, I asked that all French soldiers avoid our patch, Marines here now, and he duly sent a radio message.
At the first group of Marines I sat, my back against the fence as they keenly manned a GPMG. ‘Where you from?’
‘42 Commando, sir.’
‘You’re home town.’
‘Ah, Exeter, sir.’
‘Local boy joined up, eh, short walk to Lympstone.’
‘Father was in, older brother joined, so I joined up, sir.’
‘Make sure you drink plenty, and don’t stare out too much, you’ll get a headache. Rest your eyes, take it in turns.’
‘All your men carry Russian rifles, sir?’
‘Yes, we’d never carry those shit little pee-shooters you call rifles. Our lives depend on a reliable weapon, so we use AK47 derivatives, long barrels. Get water in them they work, sand.’
‘The SA80 is a bit better now, they fixed a few things, but is does like to jam and break, sir. I’ve gone through a few.’
I tapped my VEPR. ‘Never had a jam with one of these, and they’re damn accurate to 800yards.’ I gave them the story of our raid over the border before I moved on, finally into the butts.
‘You all settled?’ I asked a sergeant.
‘Bit of shade here, sir, and a light breeze.’
‘Make sure to get some sleep, you’ll be at it all night, so grab a few hours. But watch out for scorpions and snakes.’
Back down the range, I met the Marines captain chatting to Slider; they knew each other. As I approached, distant automatic fire sounded out, followed by a dull blast, those awake peering down towards the main road, a column of smoke seen.
‘Not going to get any peace, are we,’ Rocko grumbled as he emerged.
‘That was a car bomb,’ Slider noted.
‘Yep, so we’re not using those coaches again,’ I said. ‘Be flying back to that airfield.’
‘Lively spot,’ the Marines captain noted. ‘But I thought Morocco was safe, my family have been here on holiday.’
‘Displaced Algerians,’ I said. ‘They want payback for Rocko here killing their rebel leader.’
‘What did I do?’ Rocko protested.
‘I sent the rebels a note, said you’d killed the main man,’ I teased, Slider laughing.
‘So long as they don’t come when I’m taking a shit I don’t care.’ He started to walk off.
‘Staff Sergeant, there are young and impressionable Marines on the wire, don’t scare them with your bare ass, eh.’
‘Yeah, bollocks.’
The French captain approached, requesting my presence, so I walked up the range and down to the command tent, a long hot slog.
‘Ah, Captain. We seem to be in a small uprising.’
‘There is an isolated base we can move to, close to the border, near the hills.’ I pointed it out.
‘But ... they could attack you from the hills and come across the border.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘The plan?’
‘Let them come to us, we shoot them. That way we rid Morocco of such men, and if they come over the border – great, we deal with them. In the mean time, you have too many men here, a stray mortar will do some harm. May I suggest that you remove non-essential men, and that half of us go to this other base and set a trap. Have the press release the story that we are there.’
He exchanged looks with his staff. ‘We set a trap. OK, we arrange to send men back to the airfield, and some to this other base.’
‘If the three aircraft can land on the road beyond the hill, as they practised, we can move a team to the new base today.’
‘OK, we will check the aircraft and give a time. Thank you, Captain.’
I saluted and ducked out the tent. Back at the bivvy, I shouted, ‘”D” Squadron, make ready to move to a new base in an hour. Sasha, ready the Wolves to move. Echo, pack up ready to move in an hour, to a new base.
‘Pathfinders, 2 Squadron, you stay here till called, protect this valuable patch of dirt and the support staff, we’re moving to the border. If and when the Marines leave, you’re it ... to protect this place. Keep your heads down at night, slit trenches might be an idea.’
Back at Echo I said, ‘Staff Sergeants, boxes of ammo, boxes of rations, up here ready to go, spread them amongst the men, Gerry cans of water. We’ll be picked up by the same aircraft, beyond the hill, on that road. Get organised.
‘Nicholson, Tomo, Slade, Gonzo, up beyond the hill, slightly right, you’ll see a road. Go get eyes on from three hundred yards and wait. And as you pass the French, let them know where you’ll be.’
I walked down to the Major, taking my cap off and wiping my brow with my sleeve. ‘We’re relocating Echo and “D” Squadron, sir, place near the border, idea being to draw them out and shoot them full of holes. Max?’
He closed in, so I showed him the map. ‘Do me a favour. Run a story today, French and British special forces based here, patrolling the border to stop Algerian rebels coming over. We want them to know where we are.’
He made a note of the location of the new base.
I said to the assembled officers, ‘You lot will stay here for now. This place is a bit basic and dangerous, but that new place will become hell on Earth. 2 Squadron and Pathfinders will patrol the wire here, Marines are here – but we don’t know how long for.’ I focused on Captain Harris. ‘Feed us any intel day by day.’
He nodded, sweat stains around his armpits.
The French gave us warning of the planes an hour lat
er, and once formed up we bid farewell to those remaining with rude jibes about guarding the latrines, and we kicked up dust along the side of the range, the Marines watching us go.
Beyond the French camp we climbed up the sand tracks, past the hill and down, a hot mile on to find Nicholson and the others closing in from the side.
‘Any bad boys around?’ I asked, squinting at the flat expanse ahead.
‘Couple of cars, no one else,’ Nicholson reported.
The four of them fell into line and joined their teams as we kicked up sand, the long line of men led to the road. We waited, the day damn hot, not a cloud in the sky, the road surface shimmering so much it looked like it was on fire.
The drone of aircraft finally registered, three aircraft coming in from the north, circling and descending. Flaps down, a wobble and finally lined up, and the Skyvan landed first, blowing hot sand at us.
‘Sasha, wait here for the planes to return. An hour. Same teams, same sequence!’ I shouted. ‘Team One, Team Two, “D” Squadron.’ I strode forwards holding down my cap, counting them in, finally mounting the rear hold and moving forwards, the pilot given a thumbs-up as I sat on a flimsy aluminium bench.
Power on, ramp still up, we rudely blew up a sand storm for those men knelt waiting, lifted our nose and slowly climbed. At around three thousand feet we circled, and I observed the other aircraft collecting their human cargo. Finally we set off southeast.
Peering down at the beige land below I could see isolated hamlets and villages, a few houses near the odd irrigated area, a few isolated hills surrounded by desert, the odd patch of plastic covering someone’s valued crop, a few roads criss-crossing the desert, an isolated mine or two.
Little more than forty minutes later we descended, our new happy home coming into view ahead. I could see a dirt strip, a few brick buildings on the right, some vehicles, a line of old rusted Nissen huts – two rows of eight, some tents, and little else.
A smooth enough touchdown was followed by squeeze of the brakes, and only then did I realise that these two upfront were our RAF Pilots. I reminded them about the Wolves. We piled out and walked towards the brick building, a few French soldiers waiting, but also a handful of Moroccan soldiers and police.
I shook hands with a French captain as the Skyvan lifted off.
‘We ’av ‘ut with you,’ he said.
I got the gist of it. ‘We sleep in the sand, outside, wait Algerian men. We shoot, bang bang.’
‘Ah, oui.’
Lined up, we waited in the heat for the Nomads to touch down, the rest of the teams walking across to us as we surveyed our new bleak home, a few small volcano-like hills dotted around, high hills to the north. The final Nomad lifted off, to fetch the Wolves, as well as supplies.
‘Radios on!’ I shouted. The men got ready. ‘Rocko’s team, plus Salties, head for that thing north that looks like a volcano five hundred yards out. Make a happy home, ponchos up, 360degree eyes on, rotate the stags. Off you go.’
Eight men marched off, all laden with spare kit.
‘Rizzo’s team, that volcano northwest. Go!’ They walked across the dirt strip. ‘”D” Squadron, south six hundred yards, in your pairs, twenty yards apart, poncho’s up, make hides, eyes on.’
I faced those left, my team plus Henri and Jacque. ‘We’re the flying squad, we go out on patrol, and react to attacks. Captain Moran, ask about a hut for us and what supplies they have here. Oh, and tell them not to move around at night, or ... move around too much at all, we might shoot them.’
I finally had a use for my binoculars, and I observed as Rocko and Rizzo moved into the outcrops. ‘Rocko, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, good enough signal.’
‘Rizzo, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, clear signal.’
‘”D” Squadron, you hear me?’
‘Yes, clear signal.’
‘Any of your teams without binoculars, we have two pairs back here.’
Moran led us to a hut, hot as hell inside. We dumped the spare kit.
‘Mahoney,’ I called, handing him my binoculars. ‘First stag, one hour. Get up on that brick building, watch the north and the east closely.’
He took the binoculars, fiddling with them as he walked off.
An hour later a Nomad returned to us, the sun low on the horizon, twelve French soldiers stepping down. Henri greeted the men from his old unit, 1st Battalion Paras, and the boisterous group was allocated the hut next to ours.
‘What is the plan?’ Henri asked me after the French enquired.
‘We wait for them to attack here, but we also send out patrols. Tomorrow morning, the newspapers here and in England and France, they report us at this location.’
Henri explained it to his old team mates. They turned, took in the vast expanse of desert, and complained the way soldiers always did.
The sun hit the horizon, and I could smell cooking coming from somewhere. Wandering along the huts, I greeted Moroccan soldiers in Arabic, which they responded well to, some lamb stew shared. And they let slip that they were being pulled out in the morning.
Further along, I greeted the police in Arabic, and they were friendly and chatty, two of them a little too questioning, so I gave them a made-up story about our movements and intentions.
Back at the hut, I told my team my concerns about the two police officers, swiping away flies. ‘Unusual to see flies out here,’ I noted.
‘Concentrated over there,’ Moran casually mentioned. ‘When I had a shit they were all over it.’
I peered out at the desert, and frowned. ‘Where ... exactly?’
He pointed. ‘Thirty yards that way, you see the small ridge, I went behind it.’
‘Torches, gentlemen. On me.’
‘I didn’t make a mess,’ Moran mock protested, Swifty laughing.
At the spot where Moran had taken a shit I knelt down, assessed the wind, and sniffed. There it was, that unmistakeable smell of a dead body. I crawled forwards.
‘What the hell is he doing?’ came from behind.
I kept going till the smell got stronger, the flies buzzing nearby. ‘Here. Start digging.’ I used my boot to move away sand, and after five minutes a hand emerged. Grabbing the wrist, I pulled the body up, the man in a local police uniform, freshly buried, a shallow grave dug in a hurry.
‘Two or three days,’ I said. ‘On me! Henri, get your men!’
We ran as a large group to the police hut, and we surrounded it in fading light, electric bulbs strung out. In Arabic I shouted, ‘Police, outside now.’
The two men I was suspicious about came out last, weapons in hand.
‘What is this?’ they all protested, twenty men levelling guns at them.
‘We found a dead body, a police officer, shallow grave,’ I explained in Arabic. I pointed at the two men I was suspicious of. ‘Kneel down, weapons down. Now!’
They got down, weapons down, which I kicked away.
I pointed at the police sergeant. ‘Henri, take this man to the body. Quickly. Captain Moran, alert the French CO here.’
The French CO arrived after five minutes, it was not a big base, Moran explaining things to him, Henri bringing the police sergeant back.
The sergeant explained to me in Arabic, ‘These two men said they saw the dead man leave on a truck, family business.’
‘Tie them up.’
The sergeant and his men gave the two suspects a good kicking first, and then tied them both up.
I said, ‘Sergeant, check their belongings quickly; bombs, grenades, radios or phones.’
The sergeant and a few of his men rushed inside, back out with a sat phone. ‘They should not have this.’
He handed it to me. I turned it on, my face suddenly tinged with green, punched in a number, and waited.
‘Duty officer.’
‘This is Wilco in Morocco, trace this number, all recent use, back to me as soon as you can.’
‘Will do.’
I left it switched on, a
nd led the teams back through the dark. ‘Henri, tell your men: static guard, their lives depend on it. Trust no one.’
I grabbed Swifty, and we climbed up to the roof of the brick building, finding Jacque on stag. We sat, explaining what had just happened. I clicked on the radio. ‘Rocko, you there?’
‘Yeah, good signal.’
‘Standby. Rizzo, you on?’
‘Hear you.’
‘”D” Squadron, you on?’
‘Hamble here, good signal.’
‘Listen up, we just found out that two of the local police here were working for the other side, so it might get interesting. Stay sharp all of you. And don’t let the police approach you.’
I stared out at the stars, wondering if the police Fifth Column got our details out. And what if they did?
‘Not the best of starts,’ Swifty noted.
‘But at least we won’t get our throats slit in our sleep.’
‘Not by those two, maybe some others.’
‘Cheerful fucker.’
The drone of aircraft became distinct, and I flashed my torch towards the aircraft’s growing lights. The lights of the brick buildings were on, a petrol generator chugging away, but the pilots would still have a dark strip to negotiate.
The Skyvan came around, its lights blazing. It lined up, descended, and hit with a bump, soon easing to a halt. Men ran out the back and towards us. I could tell which one was Sasha by the way he moved.
‘Sasha, over here!’ I shouted, the Wolves gathering below me, many lugging things, which they dumped next to the building.
The first Nomad came in, wobbled and climbed, but then settled, hitting with a bump. Six men came over, all lugging heavy items.
‘Sasha, headcount.’
‘All here,’ he responded. ‘Fourteen and me.’
The final Nomad touched down.
‘What’s on the final aircraft?’
‘Supplies.’
‘Go get them then please.’
With the engines of the brightly lit aircraft throwing up dust, the Wolves ran across, soon lugging kit back, all dumped below me. The Nomad powered up, coughed, spluttered, and died right there. It was going nowhere fast.
‘Sasha, push it off the strip, we may need the strip.’