Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘British Echo remain, French Echo inside.’ Black outlines filed past as sand hit the side of my facemask. ‘Get up top, aim and fire, one magazine per man in turn, then get inside.’

  Swifty went first, a magazine fired off on automatic. Getting down he said, ‘Stupid fucks have lights on!’

  Moran fired next, followed my Mitch, Ginger, and we worked down the line. Those jeeps were at 1,000yards, and a Valmet could reach that easily, so the idiots out there were getting shot in the dark.

  The night came on, and the wind picked up, a howl at the north end, a swirl of dust, men adjusting ponchos to lessen the effect. At the south end the sand swirled, but if I stood ten yards inside the noise level dropped right off, the wind negligible. Two men with goggles and facemasks were on stag, but could not see a hand in front of their faces.

  I had the two men placed at the sandbag wall, to challenge anyone that might appear out of the storm. They were not too worried about anyone suddenly appearing.

  Morten had a good fire going, many men getting a brew on. I sat with my team, a steady howl in our ears, and we got a brew on, little else we could do. Liban sat nearby and asked about recent missions, and the minutes ticked off the clock.

  An hour later, and I was worried, the dust swirling in here and the visibility dropping. Men started to cough. In the back of a jeep I found brown cloth, so cut out squares and handed them to British Echo first, to put inside facemasks. There was more of the coarse brown cloth, so I kept cutting, all of French Echo handed a piece, all lifting facemasks to awkwardly get the cloth inside, many complaining that it itched.

  Morten and the medics had medical facemasks, white with elastic straps, and he offered his pack of fifty. I left him four and handed out the others, many men soon having the white masks over facemasks. The Americans had scarves wrapped around faces, several of them seemingly Palestinian in colour pattern.

  Our two American reporters were not happy bunnies, and I made sure they had scarves around mouths as they sat against the wall. At the south side I handed my rifle to a man and walked outside, soon back inside.

  ‘What’s it like out there?’ Castille asked, his lower face covered in a Palestinian scarf.

  ‘You wouldn’t get twenty yards.’

  ‘You got boys outside?’

  ‘Yes, but they got the warning. There are two pairs out there, one pair in a culvert, not sure about the other pair.’

  I sat back down, there being little I could do to affect things. We couldn’t patrol out, we could hardly stand guard, but in this storm no one would find us at least.

  The whistling became a roar, and a dozen fed-up men moved the sandbags and added more ponchos, ammo boxes and supply boxes carried in and placed against ponchos to stop them flapping like mad. After half an hour of earnest effort most of the holes had been plugged, and it had given the men something to do.

  Liban posed, ‘If we did not have this drain..?’

  ‘Men in the trenches would be complaining, yes. But our armies survived it in the Second World War, so can we.’

  Men tried to sleep, but the roar was damn loud. I lay back and closed my eyes, and I managed to grab an hour before I woke with a start. Upright, I could see the dust hanging in the air as men prodded fires to keep them going, a few men coughing still.

  The goat sneezing caused me to turn my head, and to smile unseen inside my mask and cloth. The lady nurse put it inside an empty ammo box. I had to wonder how it would cope outside. I turned my head to Swifty since he was fidgeting. ‘How the fuck do camels cope with this?’

  ‘Long eyelashes,’ came muffled. ‘And they sit down and wait, I guess.’

  I sat staring up at the grey concrete, tracing the joins and wondering about the men who built this at the height of the Cold War. An hour passed, and the storm’s intensity was not diminishing at all as I considered camels in the sand, the poor animals hunkered down.

  I patrolled the line just for something to do, most men seemingly asleep, but as I passed many of them turned heads. ‘You OK, Max?’ I asked, sounding muffled through my cloth and facemask.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s damn hard to photograph a storm. I got some shots inside, men in masks, something to send out.’

  ‘Be plenty to photograph in the morning,’ I told him. ‘Us lot digging out the sand accumulated in the trenches.’

  At the south end I stopped to chat to two Americans on stag at the sandbag wall, visibility poor, swirls of dust and sand between us.

  ‘Reminds me of Christmas,’ one said through his scarf.

  ‘Where the fuck did you spend your Christmases?’ I asked.

  ‘The sand is accumulating, like snow, getting higher all the time.’

  ‘How high is it now?’

  ‘About three feet.’

  ‘Bugger, we’ll have some work to do in the morning.’

  We chatted about their home towns, what specialities they had, where they had been posted, and it helped to pass the time, three men in facemasks stood in a cloud of dust and hardly seeing each other.

  Back along the line I spoke to those awake at the fires, plenty of old boxes to break up and to burn as the howl continued.

  At 5am I walked to the south side, not seeing any indication that the dawn was rising. The sand still swirled, it was still dark, but I thought that maybe it was more of a dark grey now than black.

  An hour later I was certain that it was more grey than black, the noise level dropping quickly. Men started to stir as the odd situation of no roar registered with them. The wind dropped suddenly, the grey turned brown then yellow, and we finally had visibility of more than ten feet.

  I walked out, realising that our trench – once six feet deep, was now two feet deep. We still had fire positions, kind off, if men lay down.

  Looking south I could see a big angry brown monster moving off, the sun breaking through, and facing north the sky was blue, soon clear, and our predicament slowly started to reveal itself.

  ‘Fucking bugger,’ I let out, sand drifts on the runway as high as three feet.

  The Mi8 sat in four feet of sand on one side, the APC almost buried. I sighed; all our work had been for nothing, and we would have to start over.

  I stepped back to the drain entrance and transmitted, ‘Everyone outside, bring the shovels.’ Facemask off, cloth pocketed, I smelt the fresh air as men scrambled up and had a look around at our dire situation. What had been a series of trenches with square sides was now a series of smooth outlines under the sand. Well, at least our position was well camouflaged now.

  Stepping to the runway, I saw a pair of feet and ran in, soon realising that they were not boots but black daps of some sort; a local fighter got himself buried here. Grabbing an ankle I pulled the body out, finding a long grey beard that was actually black, but covered in dust.

  ‘Fella tried to find us in that storm,’ came an American accent. ‘Bad idea.’

  I studied the area, a full 360, and noticed another body - again not one of ours, as a crowd gathered behind me. I turned my head and shouted, ‘All of you, follow me!’

  I led them to a stretch of runway that was clear of sand, not so much as a grain, just black tarmac, a keen eye on the horizon. I faced the large crowd and waved those at the back in, seeing a group of very tired and dusty faces, hair matted and unkempt, dark rings around eyes. ‘Jump up and down, pat down your kit, get the fucking dust off!’

  I took off my webbing and shook it, a mini-dust cloud created, bandolier off as men copied - shaking it, more dust issued as Max and the other reporters took snaps of the old positions, the Mi8 and the APC. Water bottle out, I poured over my rifle carefully. Magazine out, round ejected, breech open, rifle pointed down, I poured water into the breech and down the barrel, tapping the barrel. I ran the slide a few times.

  Water in the magazine, I shook it like a pop bottle, shaking the water out. Magazine in, I opened the breech half an inch and blew down the barrel. Weapon cocked, I fired three rounds. ‘Valmet!’ I tol
d those closest. ‘Fucking reliable. All of you, clean weapons and test fire, quickly, and thoroughly, before we have company.’

  ‘Crab for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We have a lad that’s dead.’

  I exchanged looks with my team. ‘Who is he, and how’d he die?’

  ‘American recruit, was on stag, found him slumped.’

  ‘Bullet holes?’

  ‘No blood, mouth was full of dust.’

  ‘Mister Morten,’ I called, and he and a medic walked off down the runway west.

  ‘How’d he suffocate?’ Moran wondered.

  ‘He tried to tough it out instead of getting inside,’ I suggested. ‘Following orders to remain on stag. And that sand storm was more of a dust storm, depends on the local geography.’

  Looks were again exchanged as men cleaned rifles. I cleaned each magazine in my bandolier in turn and replaced them, bandolier back on, webbing back on, Valmets blasting out rounds as my lads tested them.

  I plodded off west and to Slider’s hole, finding that I could not find it. I transmitted, ‘Slider, Rizzo, you there?’

  A garbled message came back, the sand moved, a hand poking up. I started to move sand away, soon seeing the hole and a face in facemask.

  ‘You lot OK?’

  ‘Yeah, just about. We blocked up the hole like, had enough air,’ Rizzo reported.

  ‘Get outside, clean and test weapons, then get shovels. You’re going to love what you find, it’s like Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas? It was snowing last night?’

  ‘No, you fucking dope.’

  I walked down the runway to the RAF Regiment position and found their sandbagged hole, but I could not see the other access points. Pulling away the sandbags, I pulled up the poncho to reveal a black hole. ‘Hello?’ I shouted down.

  ‘Is it morning?’ Haines asked, his words hollow and echoing.

  ‘Yeah, you OK down there?’

  ‘We got buried,’ he said. ‘Well, we blocked up the entrances, snug in here, enough air, but getting a bit stale now.’

  ‘Dig yourselves out, clean and test weapons, and quickly.’

  ‘Might take a while,’ echoed up to me.

  At the south side of the west drain I found Morten examining the body. ‘Well?’

  ‘No obvious wounds, and a mouth full of dust, so he lost consciousness but carried on breathing for a while.’

  ‘Bag him up ready please, get his details for me to call it in.’ To Crab I said, ‘Get everyone up top with the others, clean weapons thoroughly, and kit, get the dust off. That’s the first priority, then digging out the runway is the second – before anyone gets a rest.’

  I walked back, thinking of the Lone Wolves. I called London and reported our dire situation, and asked that they call the last two Wolf teams. Phone away, I studied the wrecked jeeps south, many now half-buried, and I could see five jeeps stretching out south, all of them with four foot of sand piled up on the east side. My phone went almost straight away. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Lone Wolf Trevors, Boss.’

  ‘You’re alive?’

  ‘We found a jeep, killed the occupants, and sat in it all night.’

  ‘Good thinking, get back here fast. Oh, the occupants..?’

  ‘Heavily armed, and on their way to you, Boss, not civvies.’

  ‘Good work then.’

  As I got back to the main gang London called. ‘No answer of either of the sat phones on White and Pullman.’

  ‘Get me their last known positions please, compass bearing and distance.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  At my team I reported, ‘Two of the Wolves are not answering phones.’

  They exchanged looks.

  Mitch said, ‘Could be underground, asleep.’

  I took in the sand drifts. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  With weapons cleaned, placed down over webbing, I had men grab shovels and start on the runway in case we needed casevac or extracting, the bulldozers sent for.

  Casper walked up with Sasha. ‘The fucking APC will take a week to dig out!’

  ‘Start digging then, grab a few men. We’ll probably need it soon.’

  Cursing, Casper led Sasha back to the APC.

  The bulldozers hit the largest mounds of sand on the runway, pushing the sand off south, men with shovels following behind, and after half an hour the two largest drifts were now just an inch tall. I dispatched the bulldozers to the southeast trench, to dig it out, more than sixty men shovelling sand off the runway, some of the French digging out their trench.

  I helped dig out the Mi8, the pilots not happy bunnies at all. Ponchos off, they found a tonne of dust in the intakes. They would need tools, some ladders ... and some help. I promised to get what they needed.

  Sasha and his team had dug out a path for the APC to reverse, but when he plodded across the sand to me he said, ‘We need to take the filters out and clean them. If we start the engine now we destroy the engine.’

  ‘You need tools?’

  ‘There is a box, always with these APC. But we may need filters.’

  ‘I can get filters delivered, tell me what you need. And then have a look at the Duska, see if they can be salvaged.’

  He did not look hopeful, the Duska sat in twelve inches of sand.

  At midday I blew my whistle and transmitted, the men all dog tired from a sleepless night. Some of these could have slept standing up.

  I walked to the former mortar position and helped them dig it out, keen to get the mortars back up and working. When my phone trilled it was London.

  ‘We have a fix on the last known position of the two Wolves.’

  I knelt and wrote it down, compass bearing and distance; eight miles. I transmitted, ‘This is Wilco, I need a few men that are awake and with it.’

  Castille stepped towards me with his sergeant. ‘We got some sleep.’

  Ginger walked up. ‘I’m fit and well.’

  I called for a medic that was awake and alert, medical kit brought along, and we took charge of the dusty jeeps as they sat on the runway. Engines started, dusty dials wiped over, we checked fuel, finding half a tank in each jeep, more than enough.

  I handed Ginger the directions. ‘You’re looking for a culvert, and it may be buried. Note the mileage, stop on eight miles and start searching.’ He had a map, and as I observed they drove down the runway east, soon hitting the sand and slowing. I stared after them, fearing the worst.

  At 3pm I blew my whistle, a bunch of half-dead soldiers trying to lift themselves up.

  Moran eased up and yawned.

  ‘Captain Moran, lead a patrol to the wrecked jeeps, take Stretch because he knows where he put the mines. Be careful!’

  He nodded, looking beat.

  I transmitted, ‘Someone bury the bodies around here before they go ripe and we all fall sick.’

  Men resumed shovelling sand, but there was not much left; what we needed were brooms. The middle section was clear, enough space for a Hercules I considered.

  Ginger eventually called. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’

  I heaved a sigh, having expected the worst. ‘They dead?’

  ‘We found the culvert under a road of sorts, although the road seems unfinished and not going anywhere, some broken down old buildings nearby. We dug the two men out, no response, but they have weak pulses.’

  ‘They have a pulse?’

  ‘Medic says they went to sleep with too little oxygen, and that they’re brain dead.’

  I sighed again. ‘OK, bring them in.’

  I called London and asked for the Cheyenne to be ready in two hours or so, a report left about the condition of our two Wolves.

  I then transmitted, ‘All teams, two of the men that went out on patrol hid in a small drain, but they suffered from a lack of oxygen, they’re now brain dead, our jeeps bringing them back in. End of report.’

  I walked back to my team, a chat to a sombre Moran and Mitch, Tomo and
Nicholson asking for names; they knew the men.

  An hour later, my phone trilled as I studied the French mortar team, and they looked to be just about operational. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s General Dennet. Can you talk, not in the middle of a shoot-out?’

  ‘Hello, sir, how’s the pen pushing going?’

  ‘Not well, not least because the Press are reporting that one of Her Majesty’s captains played a fucking Monty Python song in place of the National Anthem!’

  ‘That’s bollocks, sir.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘The song was not played instead of the National Anthem, sir, we don’t sing the anthem, and the French and Americans don’t sing their anthems, we raise the flag and the French and Americans trumpet out reveille. British soldiers don’t sing the anthem when a flag goes up and down, sir.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Captain, but that’s not how the politicians or the top brass see it, nor The Queen!’

  I sighed. ‘I’ll talk to our reporter and make sure that the situation is clarified, sir. In the mean time I have some dead men.’

  ‘Are they stepping up attacks?’

  ‘No, sir, we got clobbered by a sand storm, and our six foot deep tranches are now two feet deep, men suffocated.’

  ‘Christ. Not much you can do about a sand storm, but did you get any warning?’

  ‘We got a few hours warning, but men were out on patrol, ten miles out, not enough time. And around here the storms pop up quickly and go quickly, no warning like an oceanic storm heading for Britain. They can last an hour or a week, very unpredictable, sir. And we’ve not had a man killed by enemy fire.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, and we can’t help the weather, and men die on the Brecon Beacons often enough. Are the teams working well together?’

  ‘Yes, sir, no issues so far, all too damn tired to be arguing.’

  ‘That reporter chap of yours has a running story, always at least a two page spread, all of my lot reading it, plenty of jealous men wanting to be out there.’

  ‘A day in this heat, in the sand, and they won’t want to be out here, sir.’