by Geoff Wolak
‘All helpful stuff. What you got?’
‘There’s a long column of vehicles stretching out south -’
‘They have their headlights on, we can see them, so you get no smarty points for that report.’
‘I was going to say ... they stretch back almost four miles, bit of a traffic jam.’
‘That’s the main body of keen men trying to get to us, but they’re yet to realise there’s a minefield around us.’
‘Second group is southeast five miles, third group is bearing zero-seven-five, four miles out, but a splinter group is due north, three miles and moving south.’
‘That last part is the kind of report I want, groups a few miles away are less important. When do your bombers get here?’
‘Midnight is the target.’
‘If we’re not here, check the local nightclubs for us. Wilco out.’ Phone away, I got up top. ‘Wilco for “B” Squadron and “D” Squadron men, you have vehicles north three miles and moving south towards you, get ready. Mortar teams, have two tubes aiming due north, range one thousand. Regular SAS, call the position of those vehicles when you see them. French soldiers near the artillery, look north, get ready.’
‘It’s Sergeant Crab. We got fifty cal incoming.’
‘Stay down, ride it out, I don’t want them deterred yet.’
‘It’s Tomo. I recalled a few numbers on this sat phone, got a lady – and she spoke some English. When I asked what she was wearing she hung up.’
‘Tomo, you’re credit to the British Army.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’
Back at the drain’s southern exit I found a few men stood outside. There had been no rockets for a while, but that did not mean they were done yet, so moving around was a risk.
I told Castille, ‘Your AWACS is overhead, and their radar sees vehicles, and that column south goes back four miles.’
‘Artillery could hit it.’
‘Later, yes, when most of them are out and walking.’
‘Then we wait to see who’s first to step on a mine.’
‘Haines for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We see movement and some lights, mile away west, moving north I think.’
‘Roger that.’
Castille turned his dark outline towards me. ‘Your boys up there are going to get a visit, and maybe the fighters moving in know where them there mines is at,’ he lilted.
‘We can fire north just as easily as south,’ I assured him.
Something on the burning Mi8 exploded, heads ducked, debris raining down, a man yelping as burning oil stuck to his cap.
A heavy hollow explosion had us looking south.
‘It’s Crab, and some fucker just stepped on one of those big anti-tank mines, at the far west end.’
‘Roger that.’ I tapped my chin with the phone. I transmitted, ‘Mortar teams, standby one starshell, south 600yards. Sergeant Crab, I want four men ready to fire out, rifles only. Everyone else, do not fire. Standby. Mortar teams, one starshell south when ready.’
Castille and I lifted up and peered out, a few men joining us, the pop heard behind us, and four seconds later night turned to day.
‘Holy Shit...’ Castille let out.
In the distance, hundreds of men were spread out from horizon to horizon, about four hundred yards deep, none of them close to the mines yet. Cracks sounded out from Sergeant Crab, distant men seen to be either falling or getting down, rounds fired back as the parachute flare slowly drifted southwest.
‘Moran for Wilco; that’s a lot of fucking men out there.’
‘Good job we have Tomo with us then.’
I could see muzzle flashes and hear the discharges, many men now firing at Crab’s position, a few fifty cal machineguns chugging out rounds, and I was willing that flare to move off and die.
As it got lower it moved west, and I could see men moving west and then north, but the bulk were right on front of me and moving east for some reason.
‘It’s Crab, we have three wounded.’
‘Report the wounded.’
‘We fired at them, they all fired back – thousands of the fuckers. We got ricochet in the head, nothing major.’
‘Stay low. And learn from it, avoid the ricochet – more sandbags at the front.’
The flare finally died, and the black night was a welcome relief. As if planned, and timed, the fifty cal started up, hitting a wide area and not just Crab’s position.
I transmitted, ‘Listen up. They’ll use the fifty cal fire to move in. All teams get fire positions, get outside and get ready but stay down, move around bent-double in the trenches, don’t fire back yet.’
I moved into the drain. ‘Everyone outside, stay low, don’t open fire yet.’ I stepped to Morten. ‘How’re the wounded?’
‘Nothing life threatening yet.’
‘Any of these able to hold a rifle sitting down?’
‘Well ... most of them.’
I pointed at two French lads. ‘Watch the north entrance for Arab fighters.’ They moved position, weapons checked. To two sorrowful looking Paras I said, ‘Watch this entrance. Look for the uniforms, careful who you shoot, be very sure.’
They nodded.
Out the south exit, I spoke to each team, now whispering instructions, and I worked my way along the line bent-double and around to Sasha’s team. ‘Get ready for some close-up fighting,’ I told them. ‘Get the grenade launcher ready and the hand flares.’
‘“D” Squadron for Wilco, we see lights, jeeps coming in.’
‘How far out are they?’
‘A mile.’
‘You have plenty of movement to your left, so have a few men pointing that way.’
My phone trilled as I stood in the dark, Colonel Mathews. ‘What’s the latest?’ he asked. ‘I got a report about the APC, four destroyed.’
‘We just shot down an Mi8 helicopter, it was spotted early by your AWACS.’
‘Ah, good, it’s all coming together then.’
‘We fired up a flare, wish we hadn’t, hundreds of men spread out south, and they’re moving around the edges.’
‘You have wounded?’
‘A few minor wounds.’
‘What’s your plan?’
‘We’ll let them get in close, trip the mines, then we’ll start the fight, at which time they’ll know how many we are, where we are, and what we have. At the moment they seem to be bumbling along, but in a predictable way.’
‘You have all the stores you need?’
‘Yes, sir, but this will be over by dawn.’
‘Good luck, talk soon.’
Back peering out, fifty cal rounds cracking overhead, I could see muzzle flashes – and taste sand and oil for some reason. ‘Sergeant Crab, get ready, four men firing out again. Make that six, and I want a high body count. Standby. Mortar teams, one starshell, 600yards south. Fire when ready.’
The pop came ten seconds later, myself and Castille peering out, and night turned to day again. Now I could see men closer to the mines.
The Wolf recruits fired out, distant fighters seen falling, some kneeling and firing back, many seen firing wildly on automatic towards Crab’s trench. Through my binoculars I could see twenty men down already, more sent flying every second, many of those fighters closest to the mines now laying down and firing as the flare drifted slowly lower and slowly southwest.
I heard what I thought were Elephant Guns. ‘Tomo, you firing out?’
‘I got the man in charge over there.’
‘Good work.’
‘I hit him in the balls.’
Laughter came from behind me.
‘This is Nicholson, and I got the second in command, in the chest.’
‘Well done, Nicholson, you’re a credit to the Sniper School.’
With the flare low, I transmitted, ‘Sergeant Crab, report.’
‘We killed at least forty we reckon, but we got two wounds, scrapes on the scalp, a bit nasty.’
‘Be ea
sier next time, we’ll draw their fire for you.’
Castille noted, ‘That was a jumping jack, someone tripped one.’
I peered out, and we waited as rounds cracked overhead. A flash, ten feet up, and we had a quick x-ray view of men walking towards us, all of them getting a bit of hot lead.
But that was it, and fifteen minutes passed, no additional mines tripped, eyes going funny as we stared at a black horizon under a million stars.
‘Liban for Wilco, we see movement east, 600metre.’
‘Roger that. Let them get close.’
‘Haines for Wilco, men on the runway west.’
‘One man, one rifle, open fire, steady fire, no flares yet.’
‘This is “D” Squadron, and we see men now and then, crossing the headlights of the jeeps, hard to tell how close they are.’
‘Wait till they’re very close; you have cover, they don’t. If you think they’re inside 200yards, use the grenade launcher. Your call.’
I sipped my water, my mouth dry from the dust, all of us staying low - and all of us waiting.
‘Man down!’ came a shout, a man carried past me and inside. I followed on, seeing blood illustrated by a torch, a head wound.
Morten had a quick look. ‘Scrape, nasty, quite deep, he’s concussed but he’ll live.’
‘Be plenty more of them tonight,’ I told the medics. ‘And what happened to the goat?’
‘Made a box for it with air holes, save tripping over it. It was very keen to assist us, it thinks it’s a medic.’
I faced an Army medic. ‘He’s just kidding.’
Moans echoed behind me as I walked off. Back outside, I lifted up and glanced south, another man led inside, this time sand in his eyes from a near-miss.
A flash, and a jumping jack had caught someone, soon a second flash southeast. They were closing in. Now it was just a matter of timing it, and the judgement call was mine, the weight of decision on my shoulders.
I heaved a big breath. ‘All teams, point rifles down and tap barrels hard, sand blows in. Fire them with sand in and they explode in your face. Check all GPMGs every now and then. Get ready, the action will start in minutes. Have a drink of water now. Standby.’
Two mines were tripped, revealing themselves with flashes and dull blasts, wounded fighters heard screaming south of me.
‘Boys, get ready to rock’n’roll,’ Castille shouted down the line.
I tapped my own barrel, magazine out and weighed in my hand, blown at, the breech blown into as a dozen rifles loudly ran slides in the dark trench. I ran my own slide a few times, happy with it, magazine back in as other men down the line ran their slides and got ready.
Three mines detonated in quick succession, screams issued through the dark night. This was it.
‘All teams, standby standby. Mortar teams, one tube southwest, five hundred, one tube southeast, five hundred, fire starshells, and when the light goes fire again. Count to ten and fire. All teams, this one is for Audie Murphy.’
Castille quietly told me, off the radio, ‘This one is for Mahoney and the boys.’
Easing into the fire position, ignoring the incoming, I moulded my cheek into my rifle, set single shot, and I heaved a breath, the seconds counting down. Two pops behind me, and the seconds were slowly counted.
One...
I stopped to consider how I felt, and did I feel nervous, was I worried about the plan, about the wounded to come?
Two...
No, I felt relaxed. This was a job, not a gamble, it was the job that I was good at, the job that the men were good at, the plan agreed to by all.
Three...
All that mattered was getting the job done, done well, degrees of success.
Four...
Night suddenly turned to bright daylight, a man in my sights and killed a second later as more than a hundred men fired out, rapid single fire, a deafening crescendo created.
I found men to hit just beyond the mines, black outlines against the lighter sand, each man displaying a stark black shadow on the desert floor, that shadow telling me where to aim like a cruel arrow pointing at the victim. At first they were stood, soon knelt, finally laying down, but lying down on open sand was of little help to them, and I clicked empty I had shot so many bearded faces. Easing down, I reloaded at about the same time as Castille.
‘Damn turkey shoot,’ he shouted over the roar.
Back upright, I could see that the men beyond 500yards were all firing our way, spraying it around, each dark outline displaying muzzle flashes mid-height – they were firing from the hip. I aimed and fired, the clanking re-load felt through my cheek, moved my aim slightly and fired, and I kept going, seeing tracer hitting the sand near men I targeted.
I had not ordered it, but six mortar tubes pumped out rounds in quick succession, plumes of sand thrown up around 500yards out, many fighters caught by shrapnel, many more caught by the numerous airburst shells.
A pain registered on the side of my head, a ricochet, Castille also cursing, but we kept firing, and now I was firing at outlines around 500yards out, many running away and hit in the back, the mortars chasing after them, and I figured on around forty mortars having landed in a short space of time.
‘Man down, man down,’ echoed behind me, but I ignored it, focused now on the tracer from the GPMGs, wondering who they were targeting.
Third magazine in, and I could hear someone firing out on the grenade launcher to the left of me, but I kept my focus on my own small arc of fire. Taking my time now, I was hitting men at distance, some requiring three rounds to kill.
It had not registered at first, but the amount of incoming had died right down, just the fifty cal left, and now I could see them, three of them.
‘Mortar teams, aim at the wrecked jeeps south, go right five degrees, longer 500yards, fire when ready, total distance is 1,100yards, 1,000metre.’
Three tubes quickly popped out rounds as I focused my sights on the mounted Duska, the Duska soon lost for smoke and sand.
‘Mortar teams, go longer by 100yards, left one click.’
Adjustments made, five tubes popped out rounds, the Duska blown to pieces.
‘Mortar teams, target destroyed, do not fire on it.’
Castille blew out loudly, and I noticed the blood on his face, the top of the sand brightly illuminated, the trench jet black. ‘It’s gone quiet.’
We both studied the foreground, men seen running away in the distance, a few wounded being picked off, the ground littered with bodies. I could still hear outgoing, and incoming fire from the north.
‘Mortar teams, starshell northwest and northeast, 1,000metre.’
We turned that way and lifted up, the starshells bursting into life, rounds outgoing, but we could see little from where we were.
‘“D” Squadron, report.’
A man out of breath began, ‘Fifty plus men out there, but they got no cover, most are down, some firing back, some hiding down the ridge but we used the grenade launcher on them. French lads are firing out, got a GPMG hitting the fighters, mortars hit them.’
‘Do you have wounded?’
‘Got a dozen ricochet or scrapes.’
‘I’ll send the APC when you’re no longer in contact. Call the timing for me.’
‘Roger that.’
‘Sergeant Crab, report the wounded.’
‘We got two dead, twenty wounded,’ came a sombre voice.
‘If you need extra medics, we can send the APC, but the medics here are busy.’
‘We’ll cope.’
‘Mister Haines, report the wounded.’
‘Got a lad with an arm hanging off, he’s down in the drain with Crab now, four ricochet, some quite bad.’
‘Shout if you need help. Echo, report the wounded.’
‘It’s Moran. Fuzz won’t make it, and one of Robby’s will lose an arm, rest of us have ricochet, Jacque might lose his eye.’
‘French teams, report the wounded.’
‘It is Liban. W
e have no dead, some scrape on men up top end.’
I ducked down into the drain and trod sand towards the medics, finding two sets of feet sticking out from under ponchos, ten men with head wounds dressed up with white bandage, a few eyes covered over. I knelt and checked the faces of the dead. One was 1 Para, one an American, both displaying dusty head wounds.
In total, there were twenty wounded men in here, the result of a short fierce exchange.
Morten looked up from what he was doing. ‘What’s happening out there?’ he calmly asked.
I offered him a tired and concerned look. ‘We just killed six hundred men in three minutes. The rest are leaving.’
‘It’s over?’ an Army medic asked as he tended a wounded man.
‘Unless they have someone that can motivate the troops and turn them around. Might get more rockets, can’t stop them.’ Back in the trench, I called for Sasha to drive the APC, and to collect dead and wounded.
As I stood with Castille, we heard the heavy growl of the APC starting up and driving off, a few hundred yards to get to British Echo. Peering south, I transmitted, ‘Mortar team, starshells south, maximum range.’
The rounds popped out as I focused my binoculars, the starshells bursting into life little more than 1,500yards south. It gave me some light to see by, and out at 2,000yards it looked like a group was forming. They did not appear to be fleeing.
‘Artillery, aim south down the line of vehicles, 2,000metre, fire one.’
It was a good sixty seconds before they fired, and I waited with Castille for the shell to land. We saw the flash, left of the gathering.
‘Artillery, one hundred metre west, fire two.’
Two shells loudly burst out, and now both flashes were on target.
‘Artillery, keep firing.’
‘You switch from yards to metres,’ Castille idly commented.
‘They’re French, they think in metres.’
Six shells later, and I figured that the gathering was over, well and truly over.
‘Artillery, ceasefire.’
My phone trilled. ‘Air Battle Manager here, we have a package to deliver, but it sounds like the battle is over.’
‘They may re-group, so drop the ordnance on the traffic jam, starting north and working south, spread out the delivery. Work down as far as you can.’