by Geoff Wolak
‘What?’ he finally said.
‘The plane.’
He and Moran turned; it had been in the firing line. We walked up to it.
‘Oops,’ Swifty let out. ‘Maybe they won’t notice.’
Moran and I laughed, only to find the two French pilots stood behind us. They were not amused, and closed in on their hired plane, holes inspected. Arms were thrown into the air before they walked off cursing.
I recalled the last number dialled.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco. Let the French know that the plane, the Nomad, was hit by a stray round or two, it needs looking at.’
‘Oh, right. OK, I’ll tell them. The pilots are OK?’
‘Yes, no wounded here. But we need a plane to take a British civvy out.’
‘You what?’
‘A guy from the BBC, he was walking across the desert for charity and ... he walked right into the camp here, right before the firefight.’
‘Christ, he’s lucky.’
‘Send a plane. And we have IDs on the Algerians for French Intel.’
‘OK, will do.’
When the Skyvan finally set down we loaded the two Fifth Column prisoners, as well as our civvy and his backpack, water taken off the plane. Four engineers had stepped down with two French Intel captains. The engineers had bags of tricks to hand, and they advanced on the Nomad as the Skyvan lifted off.
I directed the Intel officers to the jeeps, to the treasure trove in the back of one, two phones and many ID cards.
An hour later the Nomad burst into life, and French soldiers pushed it back. It powered down the strip south, turned, powered back north, turned, and took off south, a circuit completed before setting down again, the engineers boarding with their bags. It powered down the runway and off.
Henri approached me. ‘The plane, it can only fly low, but – it is OK for now, the holes – not in something important.’
I nodded. ‘So they won’t send me the bill.’
When my phone trilled it was Bob. ‘You had an eventful night.’
‘Luckily we found the Fifth Column, and their phone, and your boys in London did a good job. Otherwise we would have had to use our eyes. We pasted them, thirty-four dead, got their phones and ID, French Intel have it all, still around here someplace.’
‘And the Wolves?’
‘They did well. They were in hidden positions, not spotted, then they moved around to the rear and hit the jeeps, brought them back. They don’t whinge, and they get the job done.’
‘Great to hear. What will you do now?’
‘Patrol out from here. I doubt they’d send another sizeable force, and they’ve lost a lot of men. They had a mortar on a jeep, but no mortar rounds, so they’re not that well equipped.’
‘We’re linking sat phones and tracking them, but some are on Chinese and Indian satellites. Might get some advanced warning of movement.’
‘Are you accruing lots of favours with the French?’
‘Things have never been better.’
I got an hour’s sleep around 3pm, “D” Squadron lads coming in on rotation for some cooler water, a wash, and a chat about the night’s action.
Rocko had found a small cave and had lowered in a Gerry can on a rope, his water kept cool, poncho raised to keep the sun off. Men around the camp yawned, studied the shimmering horizon, and sat around. Sasha had buried his Gerry can, also keeping his water cool.
I was just walking to the brick building, Moran up on it, when I heard the screech and dived down, the blast washing over me, dirt and rocks raining down, the sunlight blocked for a moment, a storm of sand raining down on me. I coughed and spluttered, shaking my head.
Lifting up, I could see the hole in the runway. Running towards it, I shouted, ‘Moran, you OK?’
‘Yeah, just about, I got down in time.’
At the large hole I knelt, and I figured the angle of the projectile to be north to south. I was also sure it was not a mortar, the stabilising fin in my hand confirming that.
Standing, I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, that was a rocket, same as the ones the Palestinians fire at the Israelis, range of more than ten miles, so they could be a long way off. Everyone, make sure you have some cover, a deep hole. Get ready.’
The French CO peaked out of the brick building, the French Intel captains on the floor.
‘Evacuate now,’ I told him. ‘Take your jeeps and go. Quickly. Henri, grab supplies, take your men west a thousand yards. Go!’
Moran had jumped down, as being a prudent move, and shouted instructions. I ran to the police hut, finding them on the floor. In Arabic I shouted, ‘Pack up, quick, leave now, there are jeeps, keys in. Go!’
They did not need to be asked twice. The Moroccan soldiers – who should have left today, also needing no prompting. They ran for the stolen jeeps, kit quickly dumped in the back, and sped off, the police close behind them, the French CO getting ready.
I was near my hut when the screech came, Swifty and myself diving into the sand, the blast in our ears, an angry monster of sand and dirt rising up.
‘Good fucking aim,’ Swifty noted, the runway hit again.
I checked my watch. ‘Fourteen minutes. On me. Moran and Mahoney!’ Up and running, I got to the French. ‘Leave now!’
They threw what they could into their jeeps, grabbed a water can, and fled.
To my team, I said, ‘Grab supplies, take them due east two hundred yards.’ I lifted two heavy Gerry cans and plodded off, struggling with the weight.
Beyond two hundred yards I found a ditch, and I dumped the kit into it. Checking my watch, I said, ‘Two minutes! Get in here.’
They rushed across, hard going in the soft sand, and slid into the ditch.
‘Get down.’
The screech came, the blast feeling less powerful out here, the end of the brick building demolished and set alight.
I jumped up. ‘On me.’
We ran back in, the flames crackling, and I grabbed ration packs, Swifty copying, Moran and Mahoney grabbing ammo boxes, and we struggled back, all sweating profusely.
Back in the ditch, breathing hard, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Sasha, we heard blasts.’
‘Long range rockets. Dig deep, my friend, but you are safe out there I think.’
‘Enough supplies for a week,’ Mahoney noted. ‘But that runway is out, it’s potholed.’
The screech came, heads ducked, the tail end of the huts hit, the former Moroccan soldier’s hut demolished.
I stood and clicked on the radio. ‘This is Wilco. Those rockets are being sent every fourteen minutes, so if you need to move around you have that time gap.’
Back down, I recalled a number.
‘Captain Harris.’
‘It’s Wilco, we’ve evacuated many of the non-essential people at this base, we’re taking fire from long range rockets, they’re landing every fourteen minutes, damn good aim. Runway is potholed, buildings hit, no casualties yet. Have everyone there dig in, you could get rockets.’
‘You need extraction?’
‘No, and we have a few jeeps left, we have supplies, so they can waste their rockets on moving sand around.’
Phone away, I said, ‘Get ready to run. Get wood, sticks, anything useful lying around.’
After the next blast, out beyond the huts, we ran in, and I checked our hut, a poncho and bungee lifted. Next door, I found a stack of tins, so pinched a few away, and outside I found broken wood and twigs, grabbing a handful before I ran back, the team not too far behind.
I dumped the supplies, grabbed the poncho and spread it out as Swifty slid into the ditch. Using a rock, I hammered in the wood, the poncho tied out, and we soon had a new happy home, poncho down after moving the supplies. The roof poncho was high enough for us to look out of, and we cleared sand to make firing points.
‘Bury some of the water cans,’ I said as Moran and Mahoney rigged up a second poncho. I stacked up the ration packs.<
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The next blast took us by surprise, the rocket landing west of the strip. But their aim was still good.
‘Boys are frustrated,’ Mahoney quipped, stood staring at the base with his hands on his hips, his face shiny with sweat. ‘They lost their men, so now they’re being spiteful.’ He wiped his brow and sipped his water.
‘After dark we move north,’ I said.
‘We go find them,’ Moran agreed.
I lifted my phone and dialled Captain Harris. ‘Listen, have the Skyvan come back at 5,000ft, go north from the base here, see if they can spot the rocket crews, have French soldiers on board with binoculars.’
‘I’ll contact them now. Hang on, French colonel.’
‘Captain Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How is it there?’
‘We evacuated the support staff, the local police and army, and now we’re spread out around the base, many teams a thousand yards out. The base has been hit many times, the runway damaged, the buildings destroyed.’
‘And what is your plan?’
‘Plan is to let them waste their expensive rockets, sir, then after dark we move north to find them.’
‘You had a good result last night, well done. We have helicopters on standby to come rescue you if need be.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Phone down, I stared at the smoking base, tapping my chin with the phone.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Swifty asked, sat with his back to the side of the ditch.
‘Question is ... what’s on their minds.’
‘Rockets are a temper tantrum,’ Mahoney put in. ‘Like the Palestinians. They don’t achieve anything.’
I nodded. ‘They want dead French soldiers to even the score.’
‘So here ... or the coast?’ Moran thought out loud.
‘Here,’ I said.
‘Ground attack?’ Moran puzzled.
‘They don’t know our numbers, or capabilities, and they probably think we have dead and wounded after last night, and they must be watching that road, now to see an evacuation. For all they know we have two platoons left here.’
‘And if they send a large force?’ Moran nudged.
‘We have at them.’
A blast had us ducking, this rocket having landed on our side, a huge pile of sand lifted high.
‘Rocko for Wilco.’
I eased out and stood as the sand drifted back down. ‘Go head.’
‘We can see someone, long way off, looks like they’re observing us.’
‘OK, got that, keep the updates coming.’ Back down in the ditch, I said, ‘That confirms it, a ground attack after dark.’ Phone out, I checked my numbers card, and punched the numbers.
‘Oui,’ came Henri’s voice.
‘It’s Wilco, thought you might be out of radio range. Where are you?’
‘About six hundred metre west, we found a gully, men are in it.’
‘Have them spread out in case of rockets, and we think a ground attack after dark. Get some rest. What supplies do you have?’
‘We have water for a few days, ammunition is good, food is OK.’
‘Use the phone, not the radio.’
‘OK.’
‘Wilco out.’ I eased out the ditch and stood tall. ‘Captain Hamble?’ I transmitted.
‘Here.’
‘We think there might be a ground attack after dark. Get some rest, be ready after sun down, and the plan is fluid, but ... you may have a lengthy shooting match in the dark.’
‘We’ll be ready.’
Back down, I called Sasha.
‘Da!’
‘We think there could be a ground attack after dark, might come from the same direction.’
‘We will see them.’
‘Get some rest now, be busy after dark.’ Back down in the ditch, I got under the poncho, eased back and closed my eyes. ‘All of you, rest, no need for a stag, we’re surrounded by keen eyeballs.’ I sighed. ‘Could be a long night.’
An hour later, my phone trilling caused me to open my eyes. I yawned. ‘Did the rockets stop?’
‘Yeah,’ Swifty said, rubbing his face.
I answered the phone. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Captain Harris, some ... bad news I’m afraid.’
‘What’s happened?’ My tone caused the others to close in. Captain Harris gave me the report, my features hardening. ‘OK, keep me posted.’ I took in their expectant looks, eased out into the bright sunlight, squinting, and stood tall. I clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up, there’s been an incident back at the range.
‘Two men dressed like local police drove up, but Sergeant Crab was suspicious of them, and got his rifle ready. The men dressed like police opened up on our men, killed by Crab. Batman is wounded, but Robin is in critical condition. And if we hadn’t spotted the two arseholes here then some of us would have been wounded. Wilco out.’
Back down, we all stared at the sand, nothing said for a while.
Mahoney began, ‘That guy, Robin, he survives a car wreck, six months to walk again, and now this.’ He shook his head. ‘Fella has used his nine lives for sure. Still, no fucker here left to worry about; just us, the sand and the flies.’
‘That body is still there,’ Swifty noted. ‘They never had time to move it.’
‘Be getting ripe,’ Mahoney noted.
I called Sasha and gave him the news; he had befriended Batman and Robin. Seeing that the sun was getting low, I said, ‘Get some food, plenty of water, don’t know when we’ll get a break next.’ I opened one of the tins I pinched from the French, finding pears. I handed half to Swifty.
Fifteen minutes later came, ‘Rocko for Wilco.’
I eased out. ‘Go head.’
‘We got company, jeeps on the sand, eight hundred yards northeast, men on foot.’
‘Get a bite to eat, plenty of water, then get ready. Keep the reports coming.’ Back down, I said, ‘They’re early, forming up northeast again.’
We heard the whistling sound, followed by the blast.
‘81mm,’ Moran said. ‘That’s not a 50mm.’
I took a peek out, seeing the huts covered in smoke. ‘Good fucking aim as well.’
Two mortars landed in quick succession, the huts well and truly demolished.
‘Two tubes at least,’ Moran noted.
I called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, we’ll not be moving out after dark, they’re coming to us for dinner. We have a force northeast, and we’re taking accurate mortar fire, 81mm.’
‘You need helicopters on standby?’
‘They couldn’t get close, but yes – have them ready. Did the Skyvan go up and have a look.’
‘It has a small fault, which I think they fixed.’
‘OK, standby.’
Off the phone, Swifty asked, ‘That runway useable?’
‘Only need a short strip, but it was hit in the middle twice, deep craters.’
I stuffed down a ration tin, cold, some dry biscuits, and sipped my water, the others copying. Weapon unloaded, I checked my magazines – not least for any sand, and checked the breech, blowing at it. I ran the slide a dozen times. Weapon back together, I tapped the end of the barrel while holding it down, aimed down the ditch and fired two rounds.
Pistol out, I sat checking it as the team got ready, a well-practised routine.
My phone trilled as the setting sun robbed us of daylight. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Sasha, we see them north, maybe a thousand metres.’
‘How many?’
‘Maybe fifty or more.’
‘Don’t intercept them, stay hidden.’
‘We go for their jeeps?’
‘Maybe. We see what they do first.’
Phone away, I said, ‘Fifty men coming in on the same track as the last lot.’
Two mortars slammed in to the base.
‘It’s Rocko, got a line of men, like the last lot, second group coming down towards us from the north, maybe twenty men.’
‘Hold your fire, let them get close.’
‘Wilco, it’s Hamble, we have a line of men approaching down that road, say twenty men.
‘Let them pass you, then turn some men around.’
‘Wilco, it’s Henri, I hear you. Not so good, but I hear this. We see men northwest, walking in a line.’
‘Let them pass you.’
‘You want them inside, no?’
‘Yes. If we’re lucky, they’ll attack the camp and miss us.’ Back down, now dark under the poncho, I called Bob. ‘It’s Wilco. We’re surrounded, lots of them moving in on us, but we’re all outside the base a long way and hidden, and they’re moving on the base. Could get hairy.’
‘I’ll be at my desk all night. Damned annoyed about Bateman and Robinson.’
‘They have had some shit luck. Wilco out.’
‘Pssst,’ Swifty let out, and we grabbed rifles ready, peeking southeast.
A line of black blobs moved slowly, about three hundred yards from us, and they made a line for the destroyed huts. I scanned the darkened desert for five minutes, not seeing any other patrols, and such patrols stood out against the sand.
Problem was the human blind spot, especially at night. If I stared at a black blob in the desert it vanished, yet if I looked slightly left or right it showed up again. Aiming in the dark was often down to guesswork.
‘It’s Rocko, there’s a line of men moving between me and Rizzo, down towards you.’
‘Let them pass,’ I said. ‘Stay hidden, dead quiet. Where’s the main group?’
‘Coming up to where those bodies were buried.’
I dialled Henri.
‘Oui?’
‘When I say, use the GPMGs on the base, we will attack from behind.’
‘OK, we get ready now.’
Standing within the ditch, but facing away from the nearest patrol, I said, ‘”D” Squadron, move slowly north on your bellies. When the shooting starts, wait a minute, then get behind them, then open up. No risks, no heroics. Rocko, Rizzo, wait for the firing to start from Henri. Standby.’
I called Sasha. ‘Have your men form up, teams of four, move north and then west, ten yards spread, come up behind them. Go now!’
‘Are they that dumb?’ Moran hissed, meaning the Algerians.
‘Are we that fucking lucky?’ Swifty countered with.