by Geoff Wolak
I stood on the edge of the runway, willing someone to take a shot at me and to reveal his position, but no rounds came in. The able bodied had fled, and the wounded had more pressing matters to worry about than shooting at me.
I heard the drone, soon seeing the Cheyenne, and it came in fast at 500ft, a good look down as it banked hard over.
‘Pete Best for Wilco, receiving, over.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What the fuck happened down there?’
‘We had a party last night, place needs a clean-up, maid comes in later.’
‘Is it safe to land?’
‘There’s been no contact for hours, so yes.’
He banked around, flaps down, wheels down, lined up and touched down smoothly, well away from the wrecked APC, but he taxied quickly to us, the door opening before he even hit the brakes. I helped the wounded forwards, six loaded, the door closed in a hurry, and the Cheyenne powered up.
It swung left past the first APC, right past the second as if a Formula One car, power on with a roar, and it lifted its nose quickly, wheels up, hard bank left, and it flew low level north.
I walked onto the runway, wondering about the holes, but I found them full of sand, no need for cement. Ambling back, I took in the distant bodies, and sighed. ‘Medics, get your kit, get four of those jeeps going and drive them down here.’ I transmitted, ‘Get the bulldozers and British jeeps working, move those APC.
‘Casper, Sasha, you are in charge of the APC nose down in the trench. I want it cleaned-up and working.
‘French Echo, move out and check bodies, hand any wounded fighters to the medics in the jeeps. British Echo, British Wolves, Wolf recruits, get out there and check bodies, get wounded on the jeeps, but take no chances. Rest of you, cover us.’
I walked southeast across the runway and along the front of the trench, a wary eye on the distant bodies. Swifty, Mitch and Moran joined me, and we boldly walked out, the closest body some 200yards from the trench. I kicked over a body, no signs of life, and patted him down, no signs of a phone.
Moran found a phone and pocketed it, Swifty finding a wounded man and waiting with him for a jeep. I plodded on, the horizon clear, four bodies checked, and all had bled out, blood trails left in the sand. I could see bodies out at 600yards but could not be bothered to go check them.
My radio came to life, Russian being spoken, ‘This fucking APC has its driver’s brains all over the fucking cab, blood everywhere!’
‘Get water from the medics, throw it in, get brown cloth and wipe it down.’
A long list of curses came back.
Turning back, sixty or more men were now out and stood tall as the sun started to warm the sand, the men checking bodies, and I could see the jeeps moving around past the French. By time the jeeps reached us they had six wounded, most incoherent, none a threat, and none had been found playing possum; they had walked off, limped off, or they were mostly dead already.
With the jeeps heading west to Haines I led the men back in. To Swifty I said, ‘So much for handing the wounded a jeep, none are awake.’
‘Well, we ... put them in the jeeps, on that track heading south, jam the throttle -’
I slapped the back of his head.
‘What? That could work.’
‘I don’t think they cover that manoeuvre in the Geneva Convention, and there are journalists here.’
Morten had little choice; he took the wounded to his room and tied them up before treating them as best he could. We now had prisoners, no way to repatriate them. But I had an idea. I called London, and they called Lagos - a rival TV station to the one whose plane sat here, an idea dropped.
I had every second man get three hours sleep, our trusty lookout put back up on his pedestal – after some reassuring, and I got some sleep in the drain as Swifty elected to do the stag, telling the Americans of his plan for the wounded, the men in hysterics.
At 3pm, call received, I had the wounded brought out, or carried in most cases, a large twin-prop setting down, a civilian medic in uniform and a nurse stepping down and taking charge of our wounded prisoners.
As the wounded were loaded a keen Nigerian cameraman approached. ‘It is OK to film, Cap-ee-tan?’
‘These burnt out APC, the bodies, the distance and the bodies, the plane, but if you film a man’s face I’ll shoot you.’
‘No, no, I no film the face.’
He got to work with his buddy, the two burnt APC filmed – now pushed off the runway, the charred bodies, the wrecked plane, and he filmed a distant shot, the bodies littering the desert. Happy, he ran back to the plane and they powered off quickly, not keen to hang around.
I transmitted, ‘OK, all teams get shovels, and get moving the bodies. Get the bodies off the damn runway, and use the bulldozers to dig trenches out at 300yards, put the bodies in there, cover them over before we all fall sick and die. Get a move on! And don’t just cover the bodies with sand, the sand will blow off.’
I helped move bodies off the runway, dragging them east, the first trench dug a hundred yards east of the French position, bodies dragged into it from around the area. The second bulldozer went southeast two hundred yards, a trench dug as the Wolves dragged bodies.
It took an hour or more, but when the teams complained about the bodies a mile out I agreed that they could leave them out there, the rotting bodies perhaps being a warning to fighters that might approach us. I patrolled the runway, checking in on Haines, his men having dug a mass grave and buried twenty fighters, Slider having leant some men to that effort, and he had made use of the same hole for a mass burial.
Within 300yards we were clear of bodies, “B” Squadron having buried six men close to their ridge, and I was happy that disease was not an issue, or that we would get some criticism from the Press for our treatment of prisoners or the handling of the dead.
My phone trilled. ‘Wilco, it’s Colonel Mathews, can you talk?’
‘Yes, sir, just finished burying the dead.’
‘I’m on my way to the fucking White House, hell of a media storm brewing here!’
I stopped, wondering what those Nigerian TV people might have reported, now worried. ‘What the hell about, sir?’
‘CNN got the detail from the British, and Reuters, and are making it look like World War III is unfolding where you are!’
‘What? That’s bollocks, sir, we haven’t had a single man killed yet, no serious wounds, and we pasted them.’
‘I know that, you know that, but the average TV viewer doesn’t know that, and the President doesn’t know that. CNN showed a burnt out plane, some APC, bodies, bombs falling, men shooting, it all looked like a full scale war.’
‘Where’d they get the footage, sir, there are no video cameras here?’
‘Must be, check your end. It had our guys raising the flag there.’
‘Is it footage from here, or did they grab it from somewhere else?’
‘From there, it’s on the British news.’
‘Oh. Well ... tell the Joint Chiefs that you have twenty men here, none wounded, and that the Islamist fighters have taken a beating.’
‘I’m going to have to explain the Wolves!’
‘You placed them with me, I moved them, stick to that.’
‘I might do, yes.’
‘If they don’t ask – don’t tell, just like your Navy!’
He laughed. ‘What happened last night?’
‘They sent in three APC, no four, and we destroyed three, one driving into our trench and getting stuck. They then came in on foot, and we shot two hundred of them, bodies buried, wounded picked up by a Nigerian TV station.’
‘TV station?’
‘We were being sneaky, to piss off the other TV station, and to get some local publicity. After tonight’s news, every fighter in Nigeria will know where we are.’
‘Jesus, they’ll all come after you.’
‘That’s the hope, sir.’
‘I’ll call you later ... if I keep my
head.’
I went and found Max. ‘Do you have a video camera?’
‘Not quite a video camera, but it takes many shots in ten seconds, and you can play it like a video. I uploaded some. Problem with what I shot?’
‘For us, no, but CNN is labelling this as World War III.’
‘Fucking Yanks, they always spin a story.’
‘Do the American journalists have video?’
‘How’d they get it out even if they did? I’m the only one with a satellite link. I let them send still images, that’s all.’
‘So when did you film things around here?’
‘I filmed the APC last night, using a light on the camera, some at dawn, sent out, some yesterday. The men I film can’t be identified,’ he assured me.
‘Not to worry, just that CNN has gone too far and the White House may pull out the Americans here.’
I kicked up sand through the drain, and found Castille chatting to Trapper. ‘Got a problem, for your lot at least. CNN got the news, spun it, made it look like there’s a full scale war going on here. Colonel Mathews has been summoned to the White House.’
‘You think they’ll pull us out?’ Castille asked.
‘If it looks like a huge risk, bodies in flags coming home, yeah.’
‘No one killed so far,’ Trapper put in. ‘And we haven’t even got into second gear yet.’
Castille shot him a look. ‘Since when has the White House made a good call?’
My earpiece crackled, ‘We got company, southeast.’
The three of us peered over the top with many others, and I lifted my dusty binoculars. A mile southeast came a patrol of perhaps twenty men.
I reported, ‘They have AKML sniper rifles, and fifty cal.’
‘So it’s a shooting duel,’ Trapper approved.
I transmitted, ‘All men with Elephant Guns to the southeast trench right away, everyone else get down, no movement up top.’
When my snipers appeared, an unhappy Casper with them, I led them to the southeast, finding Tiller and Brace. ‘Tomo, Nicholson, hand your weapons to these lads, teach them. You two lads, wait till the men moving in are in range, and shoot the bastards.’ To Swan and Casper I said, ‘Try and hit someone, eh, earn you pay.’
Casper rudely moved a recruit out of his hole, Swan doing likewise, Tiller and Brace taking charge of the Elephant Guns and taking position, my lads next to them. I found a spot, binoculars out as all eyes around me peered southeast.
I judged the men to be at 1400yards, almost a mile, surprised at the first shot fired, not surprised that it was Casper. The incoming patrol knelt, exchanged words, and came on.
Casper held off till the lead man was at 1,000yards in my estimation, and fired again, a man spun and down. A cheer went up, which was exactly what Casper wanted – and needed, that pat on the back.
Tiller fired, a man knocked flying, the others diving down, some just kneeling down, another cheer sounding out.
‘Two nil!’ came a British accent. ‘Wankers!’
Brace fired, Casper a second later, a man knocked off his feet and sent spinning away. Now all the approaching fighters got down. One of the fighters fired, a round cracking overhead.
‘What the hell was that?’ Castille complained. ‘He’s just firing off at random. Someone take his name, he’s on a charge.’
Laughter rippled along the trench as Swan fired. I saw a prone man roll over, another man moving in to assist him.
‘Swan!’ I shouted. ‘You hit him in the knee!’
A round cracked overhead.
‘Temper, temper,’ Castille shouted.
Casper fired, a head jerked back, the body slumped.
‘Head shot!’ I shouted.
The members of the ill-fated patrol had seen enough, the last three men legging it away. Casper fired, two men killed with the same round, a cheer going up. Swan fired, the third man spun and knocked flying.
Brace fired, clipping a man, who rolled over. Tiller fired next, the ground hit, a man rolling over holding his face.
‘Who was that?’ I called.
‘Me, sir, Tiller.’
‘That was dirty, sand in his eyes.’
A man got up and ran, three of mine firing in the same instant, impossible to tell who got him. The final few men started crawling away, and found a dip, soon hiding in it.
I transmitted, ‘Mister Haines, did you see that patrol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Use a GPMG, put some lead on where the patrol is, I’ll call the corrections.’
Thirty seconds later we heard the cackle, and I saw puffs of sand thrown up.
‘Wilco for Haines, slightly right, slightly longer.’
The cackle came again, more puffs of sand, this time around the dip that the men were hiding in. Someone raised up, his arm held, his head snapped back a moment later.
Another burst of GPMG fire, more puffs of sand, and someone crawled away, an arse exposed, that arse hit three times, the poor chap’s body shredded.
‘OK, fun’s over,’ I called. ‘Relax. Snipers, stay here for a while.’
Casper eased back, handing back the fire position. ‘I got five,’ he insisted.
‘You win a cold beer.’
‘Do you have a cold beer?’ he teased.
‘No, unfortunately, but I could have one delivered, with pizza.’
‘And a girl, no.’
‘You earned a break, so sit, relax. You win a tin of corned beef.’
‘I get my APC out.’ And he walked off.
I turned, the lady nurse handing out fresh cake. ‘That smells good.’ I grabbed some with Castille, and it was good, damn good for men living in a hole in the desert, and greatly appreciated. Her mound of cake was gone quickly.
I answered my phone, speaking Russian, men nearby giving me odd looks. Phone away, I sent Casper to get the Russian speakers, and to get to the runway. Supplies were coming.
‘Pizza and cold beer?’ Casper teased as he walked past.
The An12 circled, descended, flaps down, gear down, and it hit with a grey puff of burnt rubber, the huge beast of a plane soon stood growling above the drain, the resonating drone of four heavy engines shaking us, the pilots peering out at us. Ramp down, pallets were soon being pushed out. With the pallets simply dumped beyond the ramp the An12 powered up, brakes off, and it pulled away, soon just a diminishing drone.
I walked to the 1st Battalion position. ‘We have mortars, airburst and starshell, go grab them.’
A dozen French lads walked out with me, the pallets dragged to the side of the runway and opened, heavy boxes lugged and stacked up, opened and inspected. I called for Crab and Duffy, and handed them the heavy fifty cal chain ammo, telling them to get the Russian fifty cal machinegun from the drain, but to clean it first and to test it.
The mortars were stacked, the empty pallets to be used for trench covers, the trolleys moved onto the sand, the French now pleased with the ammunition. I read the Russian labels, a French captain writing in ink what was what. Tube checked, men moved back, an airburst dropped down the tube, and it blasted out towards the wrecked jeeps south.
We all peered that way, soon seeing a puff smoke some thirty feet above the jeeps, the sand below peppered, the jeeps peppered.
‘OK, we have airburst,’ I keenly told them.
Back in southeast trench, Crab had the fifty cal trained on the distant dead bodies, the former sniper patrol, and he now fired off bursts. ‘It works,’ he shouted. ‘And there’s a shit load of ammo.’
‘Wait till you have a target worth hitting, and give the recruits a go on it, some training. Don’t let them sit idle.’
Looking north, I could see Sasha directing the bulldozers and our two British jeeps, ropes attached. The sand behind the APC had been dug out, now a gentle slope. The APC burst into life belching black smoke, men nearby running – and cursing the driver. Reverse gear selected, the jeeps and bulldozers pulled the APC slowly up the gradient, the sand slipping, which was
the problem.
Clear of the gradient, the ropes were untied, and Casper revved, turning north in a circle but accidentally flattening a Wolf recruit position, the man buried. Others ran in and dragged him out by the feet, the man covered in sand and spluttering.
I shook my head as the APC growled up onto the runway, the jeeps driving after it, the bulldozers heading back to the drain. ‘Sergeant Crab, rebuild these positions, get some sandbags.’
I walked up to the runway, the APC shut down, Casper stood next to it. ‘How much fuel?’
He shrugged. ‘Enough for fifty miles or more, cans in the back.’
‘Check the turret gun, get more ammo for it, get ready to go.’ I turned west. ‘Rizzo, Slider, get some of your boys ready to leave on the jeeps.’ To Sasha I said, ‘Get the two British jeeps, extra fuel and water.’
Many of the Echo lads walked over, all kitted ready.
I told them, ‘I want six men in the back, that turret gun manned after checking, a few boys in the jeeps. Go grab two GPMGs from the RAF Regiment and plenty of ammo, rig up the jeeps ready.’
Men were dispatched down the runway to the RAF Regiment, the others looking over their ride, and complaining about the blood.
‘Wash it out,’ I told them. ‘And stop whinging.’
The turret gun turned, raised and lowered, several short bursts fired south, the APC soon growling into life. GPMGs fitted to the two jeeps, two men in each jeep, six in the back of the APC. Slider elected to stay here, Rizzo would lead the patrol.
I waved Casper down from the cab. ‘You go south along the track, but stay on the track because there’s quicksand. APC goes first, and remember – they think it is their APC so you should be able to get close to people. Don’t take risks, fire on them from a distance.
‘Go south ten miles, have a look, stop for some food, turn around and come back.’ To Casper I pointedly remarked, ‘Rizzo is in charge, no risks, no heroics – we have two wounded men already.’
They mounted up, many men watching, the APC belching smoke as it pulled off, soon on the south track, the jeeps following behind. The convoy passed the wrecked APC, nudged around the damaged jeeps, and it progressed south till we could not see them.