by Geoff Wolak
‘They’re firing on the village!’ Moran shouted.
The second and third helicopter closed in, also firing down, the first circling, tracer rounds seen pummelling the village houses.
A blast, and Moran said, ‘They dropped a fucking bomb! On women and children!’
‘Henri!’ I shouted. ‘What the fuck is wrong with your government? You shoot women and kids now!’
‘Those fucking idiots in Paris do this!’ he protested.
There was nothing we could do save watch, the village burning, many thousands of rounds fired down from height, ten minutes used up before the Pumas flew west at speed.
‘Could we get the fucking blame for this?’ Rocko angrily asked. ‘We’re here, and we were tasked with attacking that village!’
I lifted my phone and recalled a number.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, we got a problem. The fucking French just sent three helicopters to strafe our target village. They just hit women and kids.’
‘Christ.’
‘Let the Major know, and have him protest it.’
I called SIS.
‘Duty officer.’
‘It’s Wilco in Morocco. I want a message sent to the Cabinet Office, JIC and Bob Staines. We were tasked with getting French helicopter crews out of a village, but when we got there we could see the French soldiers hanging from a tree, so we withdrew.
‘But the fucking French have just strafed the village from the air, killing women and children, innocent old men, maybe lots of them. I want a formal complaint made, and instructions about pulling out. We could get the blame for this, we’re a mile from that fucking village.’
‘I’ll send it up the line now, this is serious.’
‘And make sure that the people up the line know we have a reporter embedded with us. I will make sure this hits the news, because we’re not here to kill women and kids.’
I called Sasha, and he went and found Max, our trusty reporter not asleep due to the mortars they were on the receiving end of. ‘Max, listen, I need a story out to Reuters straight away.’ I gave him the detail, and he would make a call right away.
Walking west, Bob called back half an hour later, 1am in the UK now. ‘Right shit storm brewing here, blame game in full swing, and the Prime Minister was up late anyhow, now mad as hell, French Ambassador summoned. Good job you got the news to us quickly, otherwise we may have been at the end of pointed fingers. Does that reporter know?’
‘Damn right he knows, and he’ll get the story out there, my story: we don’t shoot women and kids. And those wankers in the Defence Select Committee would have a field day with this.’
‘Yes, could have been better avoided. Where are you now?’
‘Walking to the pick-up point, hoping to get a lift out, but from our Skyvan and British pilots. If not, it’s a long walk south to the base.’
‘I’m heading in now, I’ll be at my desk all night. Major shit storm about to hit, but we need the French and we don’t want to upset them too much.’
Plodding on across featureless sand, my phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Major Bradley. And I’m fucking fuming. I spoke to Colonel Rawlson, then the duty staff at the UKSF, and I’ve made a formal complaint to the idiots up the range here. The French colonel was asleep, but I woke him, my shouting did that, and he was not appraised of that raid, a major made the decision after orders from Paris.’
‘I’ve tipped off the press, and Bob and the Prime Minister are awake and shouting. We could get the blame, we were at that village an hour before the French attack, just a mile away when it took place.’
‘What a stupid thing to do, to strafe a village. What the hell does that achieve other than a bad headline! Now every sympathiser here will take up arms, and side with the damn terrorists. This strip of sand was bad enough before all this, now what will it be like.’
‘Best watch the wire where you are, sir, or withdraw to HMS Fearless; you could get rockets and mortars when the news hits in the morning. Keep checking with London and with Bob, things could change quickly. Time for a command-level decision, and if you pull out I’ll back you, sir. Just don’t go anywhere by road.’
‘Fucking car bombs and ambushes on the roads, so no!’
I called the teams around and to kneel as I stood. Their tall black blobs become smaller black blobs. ‘Listen up. British Government is making high-level protests to the French Government, we may be pulled out, our people at the shooting range pulled out.
‘The news has been leaked to the press, so at least we won’t get blamed for this, and the press will know that I protested the attack, and that I was not consulted about it. We may get a ride out of here, or it may be a long walk south. Still, if we walk then we might find those rocket crews, and it has to be safer than a French helicopter.’
Henri cut in, ‘The idiot fucking officers here, they do not make this decision, that is Paris. They follow orders.’
Moran responded, ‘Should have told Paris to fuck off, or resigned, not bomb women and children!’
‘I agree,’ Henri said. ‘But what the fuck can we do, eh? Soldiers don’t make decisions.’
‘Quiet down, all of you,’ I called, the bickering easing. ‘The Press will report this, and Paris will be under pressure, not least from people like Germany and the European Union. There are laws and rules – for everyone, the idiots responsible will not get away with it. French Ambassador in London was summoned, his arse to be kicked.
‘Problem is ... we’re in a bad fucking spot to be arguing with Paris, we need a ride out of here. So let’s hope this is dealt with – or those helicopters will be coming to strafe us, not pick us up. You lot do the soldiering, I’ll do the politics. Shut up, and move out.’
The road was found by stumbling across it, a ditch found nearby and adopted as a temporary home as the air chilled.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Captain Harris, two planes on the way for you, be there soon.’
‘How is it there?’
‘French infantrymen are mad about it, they know it’s counter-productive. Last I heard, the colonel up the way opened a bottle of booze, a serious offence. He wouldn’t do that unless he knew he’d get the chop. Poor fucker was asleep when the order was given. Major who passed on the order is to be flown out.’
I sighed. ‘Makes what we do seem like a waste of time. Any updates, call me, especially if there are changes to operational plans.’
Phone down, I tapped my chin with it.
‘I know that look,’ Swifty commented, even though I was just a dark outline to him. ‘What’s the problem?’ Heads turned towards me.
‘I’m tempted to put the Wolves and “D” Squadron on the planes. Might not get the chance for a day or two, and any change of commander amongst the French could disrupt us. Thing is ... every fucker out there will want to have a go at us, even the Moroccans.
‘Back at the range, the Externals are in danger of rockets and mortars. But I told the Major I would support him if he pulled them out.’
Moran put in, ‘If there’s a local uprising here, we need the firepower, but Echo could sneak out or walk out, and we don’t need casualties in “D” Squadron blamed on us – got enough shit to deal with.’
‘So put them on the planes,’ Swifty firmly encouraged.
I lifted my phone and recalled a number.
‘Da!’
‘It’s me. Break camp quickly, collect “D” Squadron, walk south and then west along the road, the planes will drop us off and pick you up a mile west. Let the French know you’re being withdrawn and that we are replacing you at the base. Go quickly.’
‘OK, we go now.’
Phone down, we could soon hear the drone of the Skyvan, torches out and flashed as we ran to the side of the road and knelt, our ride touching down beyond us. The same teams ran aboard, and I went forwards to the pilots, finding our RAF pilots, their faces lit up from their instrumentation.
I
shouted, ‘Land a mile west of the base, there are mortars landing on the base.’
They shot me concerned looks.
‘You’ll drop us off, but then take men back to the airfield. Got that?’
They nodded.
A quick twenty minutes later we descended, circled, and we noticed faint torch flashes below. Lined up, we eased lower, flaps down, and we made a smooth enough landing, the teams running out the back. I waited for Sasha to appear, some of the Wolves and all of the “D” Squadron men waved aboard.
With the Skyvan blowing sand at us, I joined the teams and knelt, the Skyvan soon leaving us behind, and leaving me wondering if I was doing the right thing. After the Nomad collected the remainder of the Wolves, I led the teams down the road at a brisk pace.
Level with where I thought the French ditch was positioned, I clicked on the radio. ‘Wilco for Jacque, you read me?’
‘Yes, I hear you clearly.’
‘Are you with the French in that ditch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Flash your torch, I’m coming over. Captain Moran, Henri, French lads, with me, rest back to our original ditch, and stay sharp, set a stag – but get some food on.’
I led Moran and Henri across to the French, and I stood atop them after I had them group together, Henri translating. ‘We were tasked with rescuing four French servicemen, two pilots, crewman and medic, from a village north of here. When we got there we found them hanging from a tree.’
A chorus of curses swept around the desert.
‘We pulled out because there was nothing to achieve, but as we left the village your government sent in three helicopters, and they strafed the village and dropped bombs – killing women and children.’
A chorus of overlapping questions swept around the desert.
‘For this I have condemned your government in the British press, and your ambassador has been summoned. We ... have honour, we ... do not kill women and children.’
They protested that last remark, loudly.
‘Thanks to the idiots in your government, even the Moroccan people will now want us dead. Even those who supported us before will want us gone. Getting out of here alive will be a problem – for us all. If you have issues with that, talk the fucking idiots in your government.
‘Henri, Jacque, with me, you’re still part of my team till someone says otherwise.’
We left behind a debate loud enough to be heard ten miles away, crossed the strip and found our ditch, the odd round cracking overhead. Ponchos up, we got a brew on.
When my phone trilled it was the Major. ‘We’ve had a rocket attack, but fortunately it hit the French, so we’re pulling out, Sea Kings on the way. We’ll go to Fearless first, wait for things to calm down – if they do calm down.’
‘Good luck, sir. Keep me updated. We’re back at the base on the border, brew on, the odd round coming in. Oh, Wolves and “D” Squadron on their way to that airfield, so take charge of them, sir, make some calls and find them a hut or two.’
‘Will do, I’ll sort that now. Keep your head down as you drink your brew.’
I stood up in the ditch, and clicked on the radio. ‘Listen up. There’s been a rocket attack at the range, so the British are pulling out, to HMS Fearless. What we can expect ... is a rise in the insurgency after sun-up. Get some rest.’
The intermittent fire lasted till 3am, and then they gave up and went home – or had a kip. I could have gone out after them, and part of me felt that I should have, but I was holding back, the wind gone from my sails. I discussed it with the team, none keen to go out and fight for the French right now.
At dawn I scanned the horizon with my binoculars and it seemed clear, and looking north I could see no French in Rocko’s old position. Brew on, I woke Swifty when the water was just about ready, handing him a ready-made tea plus dried biscuits as the grey sand became brown.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob. What’s happening at your end?’
‘We’re back at the border base, intermittent fire till 3am, no one hurt, no mortars or rockets since we got here.’
‘The Externals, SIGINT and Major Bradley were withdrawn to Fearless, they spent the night on the deck, little room for them below, but better than being on the receiving end of rockets. The Wolves and “D” Squadron are at that airfield, and keeping their heads down, a rocket landed nearby. But it’s gone quiet now.’
‘And the political wrangling?’
‘French Defence Minister has been forced to resign, breakfast news across Europe roasting the French. That colonel at your end was sacked and recalled, and today we expect the French to withdraw from Morocco. Oh, that colonel, he punched a major in the face, so I guess he would have preferred to be woken up and notified.’
‘I could have, and should have, gone after the men near us last night, but none of us had the stomach for it, to risk ourselves for the French.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. I’ll call you later, JIC meeting soon, and COBRA again. Don’t take any risks.’
Phone down, brew lifted, I found three expectant faces. ‘French Defence Minister has resigned, that colonel recalled – after he punched his major, Externals on HMS Fearless, Wolves and “D” Squadron at the airfield and taking incoming.’
‘They going to pull us out?’ Swifty asked.
‘Bob thinks so, we wait and see.’
After breakfast I patrolled the line, taking time to sit on the edge of the ditch and chat to Henri and Jacque, who were still both depressed and frustrated.
Rocko, nearby, yawned and eased out. He took in the horizon, and then faced me. ‘Any blame coming our way?’
‘Good that you ask, Staff Sergeant.’
‘Why’s that?’ he puzzled, scratching his balls.
‘Because it shows that you know what you’re fighting for. You could just have easily said fuck the villagers. But I’m glad you didn’t, because then I’d have to replace you.’
He glanced at Henri. ‘What if I thought that a bit?’
‘We all thought that a bit, they hung four prisoners. But leaders of men do what’s right, and keep their thoughts to themselves.’
He nodded his stubble-covered face. ‘If Tomo shot a civvy for fun I’d kill him myself, not least because I’d get the shit for it.’
‘I’d hope, Staff Sergeant, that you often remind your troop what we’re fighting for, and that we have morality and honour on our side.’
‘I leave that to you, you’re the officer. I am but a humble soldier heading off for a shit.’
And he did head off for a shit.
An hour later, and a round pinged overhead. I clicked on the radio. ‘Nicholson, Tomo, get up on the roof of that brick building, the bit still standing, and if you can’t hit their sniper you’re fucking pants. Lone Wolves? We’ll be calling you Lone Pussies!’
A minute later they ran back to the base, and when I peered with my binoculars I saw a pair of binoculars peering out from behind the sandbags – Tomo as spotter, Nicholson aiming out.
Five minutes later came, ‘It’s Tomo. That fucker is eight hundred yards out. He pops up, fires high, then gets down. He ain’t even aiming.’
‘Out-smart him,’ I firmly ordered.
Six minutes later two cracks sounded out, one incoming, one outgoing.
‘It’s Tomo, we wounded him.’
‘Then let him bleed out.’
A crack sounded out.
‘It’s Tomo, Nicholson hit that guy in the foot. Be hopping mad at us.’
I shook my head as my team cringed. ‘Tomo, I’m going to send you on some good-joke courses.’
‘At least if that sniper wants to complain about us ... he doesn’t have a leg to stand on,’ came back, making us laugh.
A crack sounded out.
‘Oops, Nicholson did a Wilco.’
‘Did a Wilco?’ I queried.
‘He hit the guy in the arse.’
I shook my head. ‘Stay up there, and practise those joke
s on each other first, not on us. Please.’
Ten minutes later, and Tomo was back on. ‘Boss, we got vehicles, long way off, men out and walking, lots of them.’
I stood, my binoculars out, studying the horizon east, and now seeing forty men in groups of three or four, all walking forwards. On the jeeps, it looked like mortars were being set-up. I clicked on the radio. ‘Everyone get ready. Get a drink of water, settle down, get a comfy fire position, and hit men at 800yards. Use the rifle spikes if you have them.’
I fitted my own spike, Swifty copying, and I jammed the spike into a patch of hard dirt that edged the ditch, room for my magazine, a comfortable rest of sand for my left forearm and elbow. Cap pulled forwards, I set my sights to 600yards, the maximum, and took aim as the desert sands adopted a more yellow colour than its dawn grey.
Figuring my target man to be inside 800yards, I aimed high – the top of his head, and loosed off a round, spinning the man. That must have come to a shock to the man in question. I aimed at the man knelt over him as cracks sounded out along the ditch, aimed high, and hit the man’s hand by mistake.
A whistling sound, and a mortar landed behind us, but close enough to be a worry. I tried to ignore what was going on around me as Swifty fired three times in quick succession.
‘I got one,’ he noted. ‘Wounded him, he’s fucking off.’
I took careful aim at a man knelt and firing our way, hitting him in the knee. He rolled over, holding that knee, and I fired again, hitting an arm. At this distance it was luck and chance, but good aim helped my chances of success.
The next mortar blew sand and dirt over my team, the sun blocked out for a few seconds, Swifty coughing.
‘Go for the mortar crew,’ I told my team. ‘Aim high.’ And I aimed at a point that I figured was two feet above the head of the man feeding mortars as he stood in the back of a jeep. I loosed off five rounds. The loader fell out of the jeep, holding his arm as he got to his feet.
‘Winged him,’ Swifty noted before discharging six rounds in rapid succession. ‘Got it.’
‘Got what?’ I asked as cracks sounded out.
‘The tyre.’
I peered through my sights, the mortar now at an angle. I smiled. ‘Smartarse.’