Wilco- Lone Wolf 6

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Can I shoot at the fuckers?’

  ‘If you can see any, but be careful, our teams are spread out thin. Watching our rear is best, the way we came up.’

  I scrambled along to the high point, no one firing out. ‘Out of ammo?’

  ‘Out of people to shoot,’ Swifty quipped, the odd crack sounding out below.

  A burst of light, one jeep setting fire to the one parked next to it, and I could see that the jeeps had all been parked tightly together. As we observed, it took about six minutes for one jeep to pass its flames of destruction to the next in line. A blast, a shower of sparks rising high, and a jeep was destroyed, soon a second and third blast.

  ‘That jeep had RPGs,’ Moran suggested as we peered down.

  The next jeep to catch fire had a dead man at the wheel, another in the back, and they burnt in front of us, red and orange flames shooting high into the sky.

  ‘Dead, and incinerated,’ Mahoney noted, no energy in his voice. ‘Next stop ... twenty-three virgins.’

  Sometime later we could see ten or more jeeps alight, and as I peered up I realised that we were losing the stars.

  ‘Wilco, French wounded coming up,’ came a voice I did not recognise.

  I moved back around the high point, past the “D” Squadron guy, realising it had been his message, two men climbing up slowly. I rushed down to them, realising that it was getting lighter.

  ‘Where’s your medic?’ I asked as I checked a nasty head gash.

  ‘He is medic,’ came from the second man.

  With that second man holding a torch, I opened up the gash and pulled out the bits of rock, cleaning it out with water, antibiotic cream in, eight large stitches, my patient wincing.

  ‘We get a helicopter in maybe two or three hours,’ I told them. ‘Stay here.’ I bound up his head and injected him.

  Turning, Henri brought another man up, a finger missing. I got a tourniquet on his forearm, had his hand held up, and stitched the skin closed. Wiping it, I added a final stitch, the wounded medic having a look and nodding.

  Hamble came next, a face full of rock. I washed him down as best I could, a few lumps squeezed like acne spots, anti-biotic cream in, a few stitches, and he was set, his top lip needing a stitch. ‘Make sure they search around for bits of stone, facial x-ray, be insistent.’

  He nodded, not wanting to speak.

  I stood and lifted my phone, the bleak landscape now grey.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco in Morocco, track back this call, contact Captain Harris and the French, send a helo to this hilltop for half a dozen wounded, hour after dawn.’

  ‘Bob Staines is here.’

  ‘Put me through please.’

  ‘Wilco?’ came a groggy voice.

  ‘Yep, stood on a hilltop, looking down at a grey wilderness - and six wounded men, so get us a chopper.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They attacked the base in force after pummelling it with rockets and then mortars, but we weren’t in it, we were all outside. They walked past us in the dark, then we fired in at them, did a lot of damage, then moved off and circled their FOB, which we’re above now, fired down at them. Most have run off into the desert, rest are dead. As it gets light we’ll go after them, reclaim the base.’

  ‘And the wounded?’

  ‘Nothing major, they’re not urgent cases.’

  ‘I’ll check with the airfield now.’

  ‘Have two helos fly together, one for wounded, one in case they go down with a fault.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Wilco out.’

  Phone away, I sipped my water, a glucose tablet chewed, the odd crack sounding out.

  Two of the Wolves appeared, one man being helped along, his head bound up.

  ‘Where’s he hit?’ I asked.

  ‘Got some rock shrapnel in the scalp, Boss,’ the helper informed me. ‘But I got it out, cleaned up the wound, cream in, a few stitches.’

  ‘You trying to make me redundant?’ I teased. ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘I studied enough first aid, Boss, and we practised the stitching on pigs back at GL4.’

  I smiled. ‘Good man. Wait here.’

  Five minutes later, came, ‘It’s Rocko, we’re low on ammo.’

  ‘Sneak down, get some magazines, but don’t take any risks.’

  ‘It is Henri, we are also low.’

  ‘Go down to the road, double tap, be careful.’ I moved back to the high point. ‘Cover the lads down there.’ I moulded my rifle into my cheek and aimed down, the jeeps still smouldering, smoke drifting high.

  As I observed, men darted rock to rock, magazines taken from the dead, and I breathed easier after they started back up.

  Hearing the drone of helicopters, I jumped up and moved around the rocks to the wounded, the sand beneath my feet now more yellow than grey, a lunar landscape all around me.

  But as I looked back the two Pumas circled the old base before moving towards us. I waved a hand at them as they closed in, but again they circled us, having a good look.

  ‘Wounded men, unload weapons, grenades down, leave a few magazines if you have spare.’

  They unloaded quickly, grenades placed down in a pile. I took six magazines, stuffing them into my bandolier.

  One of the Pumas finally decided it was safe to land and loudly came in to the wounded, door open, crewman leaning out and giving corrections to the pilot. Sand blown into faces, heads were lowered. With just the nose wheel down, the crewman waved over the wounded, all of which could walk.

  The door closed behind the wounded, the Puma lifting up just a few feet, nosing down and sliding down the valley gaining speed, soon passing the old base and heading west, the second Puma following close behind.

  I dialled Sasha. ‘Come up to me.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘All units, back up to me now! Nicholson, stay put, cover our withdrawal.’

  My team were the first to me. I looked at Mahoney. ‘Mags?’

  ‘Two and a bit.’ I handed him one.

  I turned my head to Moran.

  ‘About the same, some loose.’ I handed one over.

  ‘Less than that,’ Swifty said. ‘But loose in the pockets.’ I handed him two magazines

  ‘Get the loose rounds in,’ I said, and knelt, loading my own loose rounds.

  “D” Squadron closed in from the east slope, blood on a few faces, and they knelt, Rocko coming up the west side.

  ‘Rocko, back the way we came, same tracks, lead them off.’

  He moved past me looking tired, crested over the ridge, and he started down the slope. With the Salties passing us, nods exchanged, “D” Squadron fell into line, the Wolves closing in, a few with bloodied faces. I pointed Sasha down the slope, a long line of dusty and tired men trudging past, a few smiles given, shoulders slapped.

  I started off down the slope after the last man. ‘Nicholson, five minutes then join us.’

  ‘Right, Boss.’

  ‘Any movement?’

  ‘Some men in the desert, long way off.’

  It was easier going down than coming up, rocks navigated around, a well worn set of prints to follow. Three hundred yards down the slope I stopped and looked back, Nicholson coming across the ridge. He stopped suddenly and looked west, then raised his rifle for a few seconds.

  Starting down towards us, he transmitted, ‘Boss, long line of vehicles coming, look like armoured personnel carriers.’

  ‘What?’ Swifty puzzled.

  I transmitted, ‘Rocko, hold up. Nicholson, where were they?’

  ‘On that approach road in the desert,’ he said as he came down the slope.

  I dialled Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, you know anything about armoured personnel carriers in this area?’

  ‘No. Hang on, I’ll ask the French ... French say the Moroccan Army just notified them of sending a force to that base. French have dispatched men by helicopter, and the Sea Kings are going to ferry French as well.’

  ‘Guess
we’ll have company then. Wilco out.’ On the radio, I said, ‘Rocko, move on, Moroccan Army have decided to do what they’re paid to do, French soldiers on the way.’

  ‘Do we get the day off?’ Rocko asked.

  ‘After you’ve cleaned out our hut.’

  ‘The hut? It’s a burnt out shell!’

  ‘That’s why it needs a clean out,’ I transmitted, my team laughing.

  It took an hour to move down and to cross the desert, a few bodies found – men who had bled out, magazines pinched away. At the base the Moroccan’s were inspecting the mess we’d made of their border post, helicopters roaring in and setting down, French soldiers piling out, Henri’s major with them, Major Liban. As well as Max.

  Max walked over as I stood cradling my rifle. ‘What the fuck happened here?’ he asked, taking in the scene, the smouldering buildings, the holes left by the rockets and mortars, bodies everywhere, limbs strewn around.

  ‘We had a bit of a falling out with the locals,’ I told him. ‘More damage up the hill, north.’ I greeted the French major with a tired nod.

  ‘You are OK?’ the major enquired as his men looked over bodies.

  ‘Our wounded were taken off, sir. If you take your men due north to the hill, you’ll find a lot of bodies, jeeps, mortars.’

  ‘We got the report from the helicopters, yes.’

  I kicked dirt onto a hole on the runway. ‘If the Moroccans can fill in the holes, we can get a supply plane in.’

  ‘Maybe you need some rest, eh.’

  ‘We can rest here, sir. Can you watch the horizon for a few hours?’ He nodded as I clicked on the radio. ‘All British teams, go due east two hundred yards, there’s a ditch, some supplies in it, make a home, eat then sleep. Move out.’

  I faced the major. ‘We never found the rocket crews, so be careful around here, sir.’

  I walked with my team, kicking up sand, everyone moving slowly, and we reclaimed our ditch. Poncho out, I rigged it up, Swifty putting his poncho down, Moran and Mahoney rigging up their poncho, Sasha north of me a few yards, Rocko south a few yards.

  Sitting, I sighed loudly, opening my second tin of pears as Swifty got a brew on. Half of my pears passed to Swifty, I sat cross-legged, the goo stirred after tea was made, nothing said.

  Food in us, the day warming up, we all eased back and shut our eyes, jackets off and used as pillows.

  I woke at 2pm, stiff, my neck in need of the delicate touch of a Thai masseuse. Problem was, there wasn’t one to hand.

  After a sip of warm water, I eased up and moved quietly, up the ditch side and back to the base. The Moroccans were busy cleaning up, and I noticed a truck loaded with bodies. It drove off, and looking around I could no longer see bodies or limbs, a few patches of blood still visible.

  Noticing a pile of rifles and magazines, I selected eight full magazines, weighed them in my hand, and filled up my bandolier.

  Major Liban approached. ‘You stock up ready for more, no.’

  ‘Still more rebels out there, sir.’

  ‘We found men in the desert, most surrendered quick, some wounded and dead men. The Moroccans take them. They were very angry.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘The Moroccans.’

  ‘Why?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Because Algerian men cross the border. The men they find ... a kick to the head.’

  I nodded, considering that, taking in the line of armoured personnel carriers. ‘Have you been up the hill?’

  ‘Yes, and they collected bodies. Not enough bags, so they send for more. You killed many men.’

  ‘Fewer gunmen in the world,’ I commended, taking in the strip; the holes had been filled in and stamped down well enough.

  Hearing helicopters, we looked west, seeing specs on the horizon, and so we moved off the strip. Three Pumas and three Sea Kings set down, a hell of a roar created. I noticed the French colonel and a few of his staff step down, boxes and Gerry cans offloaded from other Pumas, Max walking in from the north and taking snaps.

  I saluted the colonel. ‘Welcome, sir. If we had known you were coming we would have decorated a little.’

  He smiled, and took in the mess as the rotors turned behind him. ‘I understand it was much worse, many bodies.’

  ‘Yes, sir, a bit better now.’

  ‘And how did your plan ... work out?’

  ‘Plan was to draw them out and kill them, sir, so ... it worked well.’

  ‘Indeed, yes, a high body count. You wish to remain here?’

  I took in the base. ‘Maybe to travel out, they will take time to re-group here. And we need to find the rocket crews.’

  ‘We have plenty of supplies for you and the men here, trucks coming.’

  The screech was not heard due to the rotors turning, the blast throwing up an angry brown monster of sand a hundred yards west of the strip.

  The colonel and his staff eased up from where they had ducked down.

  ‘They take fourteen minutes to reload, sir,’ I casually mentioned. ‘Time for you to go I think, we don’t want to lose a helo.’

  Looking horrified, he stared at the drifting cloud of sand. ‘Yes, I think so. Good luck captain.’ The colonel and his staff ran to their helo as I stepped across to the Sea Kings.

  Pointing at the pilots, I gave them a brisk upwards signal. They did not need to be nudged twice and pulled away, due east and then around Rocko’s volcano mound, the Pumas following.

  Back at my ditch, the team was awake and peeking out, their slumber interrupted. I dumped down a Gerry can. ‘Top up.’ I clicked on the radio. ‘All teams, get down, wait another rocket, then you have fourteen minutes to get the supplies.’ I slipped into the ditch.

  ‘Choppers brought in supplies?’ Moran asked, yawning.

  ‘Plenty.’

  I waited, the next blast a little closer to the strip. ‘British teams, get the supplies! Move it!’

  They ran off across the sand, soon back with boxes or cans. I had led my team to the stockpile of magazines and folded up the poncho they were sat on, carrying them back between the four of us.

  When I turned, Max was there. ‘Max, you little shit, you trying to get yourself killed?’ I barked at him.

  ‘Fucking helicopters went without me!’ he protested.

  I considered that. ‘They did leave in a hurry, yes. Might be back. Get down.’ In the ditch, I said, ‘Make yourself useful. Empty magazines onto something clean, clean the mag – no sand, then refill.’

  He sat, his heavy kit dumped, and got to work, Swifty and Moran helping him. ‘So what happened all together?’ he asked.

  Over the next half an hour we gave him the story, and our perspective, as I sat and loaded magazines. With ten magazines in hand, I patrolled the ditch, asking who was short and handing them out. Back at my team, Moran had the part-full box of ammo, and we sat loading magazines as we chatted.

  Henri appeared above me.

  ‘Where you been?’ I asked.

  ‘With my men, and the new men, we have the ditch, west, like before. The Moroccans, they drive to a place a mile away, the border.’

  ‘Base is empty?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Supplies?’

  ‘Many supplies, yes.’

  ‘Take what you want, or a rocket may hit it.’

  ‘We wait?’ Henri asked, no rockets having landed for an hour.

  ‘Today we rest, eat, drink, tomorrow we patrol.’

  He nodded, wiped his brow, and headed off.

  I stood. ‘Henri!’

  He stopped and turned. ‘The men who are fresh, they can patrol northeast?’

  ‘I send them, yes.’

  ‘And a platoon in the hill, where Rocko was.’

  He again nodded, and headed off. I looked east, and realised that the French had failed to watch the horizon. ‘Rocko, stag rotation, facing east.’ I turned north. ‘Sasha, stag rotation, facing east and north.’

  Lifting my binoculars from my backpack, I scanned the
horizon for five minutes before handing them to Sasha for his man on stag. Walking down to the southern end of the line, I eased down next to “D” Squadron. ‘You guys OK, no festering wounds?’

  ‘A few cuts and scrapes,’ the troop sergeant informed me as he ate from a tin. ‘No drama.’

  ‘What we up to?’ another man asked.

  ‘We rest today, patrol tomorrow. French are out there patrolling tonight, the fresh lads.’

  ‘Our wounded coming back?’

  ‘Hamble might, other guy has a nasty scrape, needs skin off his arse, time to heal.’

  ‘French lads are solid,’ a man said. ‘Good boys to work with.’

  ‘That they are,’ I agreed.

  ‘How come you brought your sniper intake out here?’ the troop sergeant asked, squinting in the bright sun.

  ‘Experience is key, not training,’ I told them. ‘A soldier can be fit, a good shot, but he needs to live in the sand and be shot at – that’s what makes a good soldier. Many of you were in Angola and Djibouti, so you’re getting the experience, and when a job comes along you’ll do better – and teach the new lads.

  ‘Those lads in the Wolves are not as good as you lot, not as fit, but they get the job done, no whinging, good attitude. And that’s what wins a battle, a good attitude, not soldiers who want to be elsewhere. That lot are dumb enough to want to be here, a hole in the ground, sand and flies.’

  ‘Are you allowed to say why you have a Russian with you?’ a man risked.

  ‘Mi6 agent. Was a Russian soldier, now working for us.’

  ‘You do many naughty jobs for the spooks?’ they asked.

  ‘Now and then, a few extra scars.’

  ‘Tuxedo, helicopter, speedboat..?’ they teased.

  ‘Usually ... a hole in the dirt. Don’t go volunteering if you think it’s glamorous.’

  ‘I knew that fucker Colonel Roach,’ the troop sergeant mentioned. ‘Did you ... help him on his way?’

  ‘Someone else got there first, unfortunately, I would have liked to slice him up.’

  ‘A lot of nutters like him out there, any job so long as it pays.’

  ‘A lot of nutters in here,’ I countered with. ‘Look where you are, and what you’re doing for a living.’