Wilco- Lone Wolf 13

by Geoff Wolak

  Stretch pointed, ‘Good three hundred yards of mines, all used up. Be some loud bangs later.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  We all looked up at the buzz of a light aircraft.

  Henri pointed south. ‘There.’

  ‘Incoming!’ I shouted towards Echo, Henri and Stretch sprinting to their holes. I transmitted, ‘Incoming! Aircraft incoming, get to cover!’

  I ran to my hole and jumped in, the rest of the lads better protected than me. Binoculars out, I could see that it was a single seat Cherokee, and that it was coming straight for us, nose down. As I observed, my snipers now out of their hides and aiming up, the aircraft’s pilot seemed to be aiming at the drain.

  ‘Open fire!’

  Blasts sounded out from the Elephant Guns, and on the third shot smoke was seen, the Cherokee not deviating from its course as someone in the southeast trench fired up, our visitor seemingly speeding up – and heading right for the rubbish left from the pallets.

  ‘Fuck...’ Swifty let out just before the plane hit, a flash, and we all dived down as the blast wave hit us. Shaking my head, I lifted up, a huge plume of smoke and sand moving outwards.

  ‘That plane was stuffed with explosives!’ Moran said. ‘Fucking suicide pilot – on his way to paradise and twenty-three virgins.’

  I stood, dusting myself down. I transmitted, ‘This is Wilco. I regret to inform you that the suicide pilot has destroyed our rubbish dump.’

  Laughter rippled along the line as I moved out to the runway and glanced around, not hearing anything.

  Moran said, ‘If we had mines stacked there...’

  ‘I reminded the French about where to stack their mortars. I think they just got a nudge.’ Phone out, I called Tinker. ‘You missed some intel.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A light aircraft packed with explosives and a suicide pilot.’

  ‘Crikey. Anyone hurt?’

  ‘He burnt our rubbish for us. Listen out for mention of aircraft, eh. And pass this up the line; London, the French and the Americans.’

  I walked along the runway, our previous litter area now alight, the cardboard having been burnt down, the wood burning. And if the medics had been in their hole they would have a headache right about now. I stepped past the acrid smoke, and around to the mortar position, the start of that position just fifteen yards from the crash site.

  ‘You lot OK?’ I asked as the fire crackled loudly.

  ‘We heard the warning, got under,’ the captain told me. ‘Ears are calling.’

  ‘Ears are ringing,’ I corrected him. ‘Remember what I said about storing mortars...’

  He pointed at boxes under cover, and offered me a worried look.

  ‘I was going to ask you to burn the rubbish tomorrow,’ I told him, his men laughing.

  I turned my head, and heard the buzz. ‘Incoming!’ I shouted as I ran to the drain. I jumped, and slid down the sand, shoving a man into the sandbag entrance and through. ‘Incoming!’

  I hid behind the sandbags, heard the buzz getting louder, the blast shaking me, and only then did I realise that it had been Max I shoved.

  Spinning out, Max hard on my heels, I moved along the start of the French position, turning left into the mortar pits. There, in the distance, sat the remains of a light aircraft, and it had hit the jeeps we had pinched away, and the tents we had placed, many heads up out of trenches and peering that way.

  The first battalion captain noted, ‘They do not aim well.’

  ‘Not much to see from above.’

  ‘Plane coming in!’ came Sergeant Crab’s voice, and many faces spun around and looked.

  A plane was corkscrewing down, gaining speed, and it hit the wrecked jeeps south of us. I exchanged a puzzled look with the captain.

  ‘This is Rizzo, and this really is fucking embarrassing!’

  I turned to the French lads, all starting to laugh as I held my hands wide.

  ‘“D” Squadron for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What the fuck’s going on down there?’

  ‘Suicide pilots.’

  ‘From up here it looks like an old war movie from the Pacific, kamikaze pilots diving in.’

  ‘Well ... that’s pretty much the case. Keep your heads down.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Not so far, but the day ain’t over yet.’

  Max got up onto the runway, snapping away, one of the American journalists now with a video camera.

  ‘Crab for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Movement down the south track.’

  ‘Roger that.’ I got up onto the runway, binoculars out, a lone jeep sat there looking us over. I checked my watch; it was just coming up to 3pm. ‘All teams, we have contact south. Stay under cover, get ready for rockets, a few men to watch the horizon. Get down and get ready for rockets and mortars incoming.’ Off the radio I said, ‘Max, get below.’

  I followed him down and into the drain.

  An Army doctor, a captain asked, ‘No wounded?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Suicide pilots in three small planes packed with explosives.’

  ‘Jesus. Suicide pilots?’

  ‘These Islamist boys, they’re prepared to die for their cause.’

  ‘You said welcome to hell, not to 1945!’

  Morten told him, ‘Get used to the odd things, it’s always strange around Wilco.’

  I spoke to a few French lads sheltering in the drain, to 1 Para and then the Pathfinders, finally the two American teams, all keen for a stand-up fight.

  At the south side I found Castille peering out of his position. He glanced at me. ‘Your sergeant fella is right, it is embarrassing.’

  ‘Inexperienced pilot, no idea what to expect here, wouldn’t see much from altitude, what’d you expect?’

  ‘If I was going to throw my life away like that I’d want to actually hit something valuable. I’d fly around and take a look.’

  ‘If they did that we’d shoot them down.’

  Suddenly remembering the guys laying mines, I got up top. They were in a group three hundred yards east, still happily laying mines, and Robby was well north of the runway, the French mine team next to their artillery. I breathed again, and relaxed. Studying the distant jeep studying us, I wondered if they could see the mine laying. It did not make much of a difference, but ... still.

  I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, GPMG on that jeep south.’

  The cackle sounded out, the windscreen turned white, men fell out, and those men lay still after a moment.

  I suddenly realised something. ‘Captain Moran, send a patrol to that jeep as fast as you can, get me the phones!’

  I looked to the right, soon seeing six men sprint across the runway and south down the track. It took a few minutes, and beyond the wrecked jeeps they knelt and double-tapped. I saw them kneeling over bodies, soon running back in as I walked along the runway towards them.

  A sweaty-faced Moran handed me a sat phone. I called London. ‘It’s Wilco, trace this number as a top priority, see who he’s been calling. Thanks.’ I tossed the phone to the side of the runway.

  ‘Don’t need that phone?’ puzzled a sweaty Rizzo.

  ‘Got the number, they’ll track back; I reckon the men in that jeep were talking to the guy in charge. Get under cover, company is coming.’

  Back at the drain, I took position next to Castille, my back just five yards from the drain exit, and I keenly studied the horizon with my binoculars.

  Casper walked up the trench, drenched in sweat, his lower half dusty as hell. ‘We have nearly finished.’

  ‘Mines left?’

  ‘Some, yes, not many. When we would see the runway we planted more, and string between them, so they pop together.’

  ‘Good. Get some food and water, rest a little if you can, but hide in the drain till after the bombardment stops. Oh, I put some grenades down there, get some in pockets
ready, make sure you have the grenade launcher for later, when they come in close.’

  He nodded and ducked under the first trench cover.

  Robby appeared on the runway above us. ‘We gave the French the last three flares.’

  I squinted up at him. ‘Get under cover somewhere, get ready for rockets. Rest for a few hours if you like.’

  He led his troop off towards our Echo position as two Army doctors appeared, both Majors, water bottles in hand. They peered out south.

  ‘Been following this in the papers,’ one began. ‘Odd to finally be here, but it looks as bad as in the papers.’

  ‘It’s not a pleasant spot to make a mistake,’ I told them.

  ‘Christ, that’s the hand sticking up, from the papers. Wait, someone’s bent the fingers.’ He shot me a disapproving look.

  ‘Limeys did it,’ Castille told him.

  ‘Could have buried the poor chap properly.’

  ‘Why, they’d not bury us, no Geneva Convention here,’ I told them.

  ‘And if one of us was captured?’

  ‘You’d be sliced up slowly, so don’t get captured,’ I told him.

  Twenty minutes later, Moran came on with, ‘Wilco, Tomo grabbed that sat phone you tossed away, and he’s been chatting to people the other end. I’m worried he might have left a bad impression of us.’

  Castille smiled widely.

  ‘Tomo, were you polite?’

  ‘They offered me money to list who was here, so I did. Pioneer Corp, Sellar Scouts, Storm Troopers, and Audie Murphy of course.’

  ‘You’re a bit young to remember Audie Murphy.’

  ‘No I’m not, he was in that porn movie with Kitten Natividad.’

  Castille bent over laughing.

  ‘Tomo, I’m reasonably sure that was not Audie Murphy. And what most people don’t realise is that he was an actor playing a soldier in a movie based on his own life, he was one of the most highly decorated soldiers to have fought in World War II.’

  Castille noted, ‘Art imitating art imitating life. Jesus...’

  ‘This is Wolf recruit Murphy, sir, and Audie Murphy was my grand daddy’s adopted-brother. And no, he was never in a porn movie, but he died broke after hitting the bottle. The government offered him a house and some money, and he turned them down. He was the first to publicise PTSD, sir.’

  ‘Then he did some good for future soldiers,’ I noted.

  Castille said, ‘Got us a celeb in the ranks. What was that film anyhow?’

  ‘To Hell And Back.’

  Castille tipped his head. ‘Could be the title of my mission report for this shit hole.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘It’s Tinker, and we tracked that priority phone, and he’s sat southeast of you, four miles out.’

  ‘Can you get me an exact fix?’

  He read out the coordinates.

  ‘Thanks.’ I transmitted, ‘French artillery, get ready to fire. Get a paper and pen, note these coordinates.’ I read them out twice. ‘Find that position on the map, get the bearing and distance, fire eight shells when ready.’

  ‘What they aiming at?’ Castille asked.

  ‘The man in charge.’

  ‘He’s in for a shock then. Be wondering how we zeroed in on him.’

  ‘As much of a shock as the level of intelligence my man Tomo is displaying?’

  It took two minutes, but the two artillery pieces finally blasted out shells, soon followed by two additional rounds outgoing.

  I transmitted, ‘Tomo, call that guy back and tell him you’re shelling him.’

  ‘Hang on, I got through to my mum on this guy’s phone.’

  Castille bent over laughing. Upright, shaking his head, he said, ‘This is no way to fight a war.’

  Eight shells in total were loudly lobbed southeast, and Tomo ended his call with his mum, no one answering the sat phone at the other end.

  I called Tinker. ‘Any radio traffic from that location?’

  ‘Hang on ... incoming artillery ... wounded men ... leader is wounded. You shelled him?’

  ‘We shelled him.’

  ‘Bloody hell, he’ll be miffed.’

  ‘Have the boys at your end see if there’s a change of leadership and – more importantly – a change of tactics.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Call ended, I heard the screech and got down, a hand pulling Castille down, an angry monster made of sand rushing across the top of the trench and blocking out the sun. I threw him inside the drain and followed on, three hits in quick succession rumbling through the drain as men from the teams glanced up at the roof.

  Castille straightened, shaking off the sand. ‘I don’t think that fella appreciated being hit like that.’

  ‘If they waste rockets – great. And if they move in daylight, even better.’

  ‘They ain’t that dumb.’

  I accepted a cup of tea from Morten as the barrage continued, men’s faces orange from the numerous fires burning. I sat, making use of one of the flimsy fold-out chairs, the Army medics peering up at the ceiling, and hoping it would hold.

  The barrage continued for thirty minutes, a great many rockets landing, but in a regular cycle. After one cycle three French lads were brought in, a bit too close to a rocket, all a bit stunned, two medics for each man - so they were getting good care and attention.

  My radio crackled, distorted, so I stepped to the north side, the barrage having ended, or at least a pause of longer than a few minutes was now evident. At the north side I waited.

  ‘Liban for Wilco.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Vehicles east.’

  I lifted my head and binoculars over the edge of the trench and re-focused the binoculars. It looked like four APC, and behind them a mass of jeeps. I transmitted, ‘All teams, APC coming in from the east, jeeps behind them. The APC have turret guns, but they’ll need to be close to use them, inside 400yards, so wait till they get close.

  ‘Men with GPMG, aim at the front tyres. When the tyres go they stop. Snipers, aim at the front left driver’s slot, a shot between the eyes if you’re any good. Men with RPGs get ready. Artillery, get ready to fire horizontal. Mortar teams, aim due east at least 400yards. Standby. Sasha, where are you?’

  ‘We are in trench, RPG here.’

  I scanned left, not seeing the French mine laying team, or their concrete structure, and we had an hour of daylight left, so the APC were early – and taking a risk.

  I transmitted, ‘1 Para, Pathfinders with GPMG, come about and aim northeast.’

  The APC halted about 800yards out, the jeeps much further back, and I held off allowing anyone to fire at them, wondering just what the hell the APC crews were planning. Waiting for dusk would have been the sensible option, but to then fire their turret guns after dark would be pointless.

  Liban appeared at my side and peeked out. ‘What is their strategy?’

  ‘I was just thinking ... that if the APC come in fast after dark, fighters jump out the back and lay down.’

  ‘Ah, yes, and then maybe grenades into trenches. We will be fighting close.’

  I lifted my head and took in the wispy thin clouds to the east. ‘Be dark in just over an hour.’

  ‘We fire mortars?’

  ‘Waste of mortars, and we only have so many.’

  ‘How are my wounded men?’

  ‘Just a slight concussion, be OK in a few hours.’

  He pointed at the sand, a small black scorpion hurrying from somewhere to somewhere.

  ‘The smaller they are ... the more deadly,’ I told him, and flicked it away with a boot.

  Ten minutes later two APC drove at us, picking up speed.

  ‘Idiots,’ I let out. I transmitted, ‘GPMG get ready to fire, at 400yards – and get the fucking sand off your chain ammo now! Artillery, wait for the vehicles to stop.’

  Liban readied his rifle.

  ‘Hit the driver and you get a steak dinner.’

  ‘If I hit the dri
ver ... I award myself a medal.’

  ‘Point your barrel down, hit it hard a few times.’ He puzzled that, but did so. I added, ‘Sand is blowing northeast to southwest, and if you get sand in the barrel it explodes.’

  ‘Ah, good advice.’ He transmitted that advice in French as the APC came on, and the driver’s of those APC must have been wondering about the lack of fire coming from us.

  At just about 400yards the turret guns of the lead two APC opened up with a loud cackle, sand hit to my left, the French hides hit, a ‘whizz’ and a ‘twang’ as misshapen rounds spun off. I heard our own GPMGs hammering out rounds and could now see tracer bouncing off the APCs, a metallic tinkle heard on the breeze.

  For us it was a metallic tinkle, but for the men inside the APC’s rear compartment it would be like someone hitting it with a sledge hammer. I did not envy those men.

  Through my binoculars I saw the front tyre on the left APC shred and tear away, and the APC eased to a crawl. Seeing movement, I lowered my binoculars, Casper above the trench, RPG aimed. He took his time, finally a back-blast of smoke, the head flying off and almost straight in its trajectory, heading for the nose of the APC on the right, but the RPG veered off and hit the front wheel.

  The blast reached us, both APC still firing out, and when the smoke cleared I could see a shredded tyre, a cheer going up, Casper only now getting down.

  An almighty blast from the left, and a 122mm shell hit the left-most APC, a huge shower of sparks as the APC rolled, a hole in its side, orange flame spewing out of a dozen places, the explosion shaking me. A second blast from the artillery, and the second APC blew to pieces, bits landing in front of me, my ears ringing.

  ‘My god,’ Liban let out as we stared wide-eyed at the wrecks, the APCs burning fiercely, someone’s head on the sand in front of us, lifeless eyes staring out. Liban and I stared into those lifeless eyes for a moment, exchanged looks, and returned to studying the action.

  The sand around us was torn up so we ducked lower, the final two APC firing from what I considered was 600yards out, no way for the aim to be accurate. When the firing eased we peeked out, both APC coming on, and I could see their strategy; the smoke from the first two APC was not climbing much but blowing slowly towards us, blocking our field of view.