by Geoff Wolak
Castille slowly led the Americans in, late. I pointed, ‘Go south down the track, stay on it – watch the fucking mines, go southeast, make safe any rifles you find in the dirt, grab ID cards and phones - the men furthest out, work east.’ I got closer to him and pointed. ‘There, 1200yards out, are some mines, avoid that area, rest of the mines are in that strip you can see. Back here for midday. Go.’
Half an hour later, two tired Wolf recruits dragged in two boxes overflowing with weapons, plonked on the side of the runway, and the boxes kept coming, three wounded fighters dragged in on ponchos, alive but semi-conscious.
‘Get them to the medics, tell them I said to treat them. Go.’
One recruit brought back a bag of phones and IDs, and I sat on a wooden box and started calling London on the phones, nine sat phones worked through.
Moving the IDs from one bag to a pile in the sand, I found a French-Algerian as Liban predicted, soon finding that he had six buddies with him, a bit of a group outing. I called over Liban, and handed the IDs over. ‘Call Paris, give the names.’
He sat and made a call as I pulled out IDs and glanced at them, soon finding two British men, and they could have been brothers. I called it in, names and dates of birth.
There were a dozen passports, a variety of colours, all excellent intel. I called in and gave details of Moroccans, Libyans, Egyptians, all sorts, four wounded men being dragged in past me, all directed towards the medics in the drains.
Finding a small photograph, laminated, I could see the man with his wife and two daughters. After studying it, I handed it to Liban. He studied it as well, but said nothing, finally placing it on the pile.
I pulled out twenty-six passports and called them all in, two of the passports being British, four being Pakistani. Another bag arrived, six sat phones, so I hit the numbers on each in turn, soon detailing twenty-eight passports, a group of Yemeni citizens in the mix, finally pulling out a blue American passport, a Khalid Papaz.
I called Langley and left the details, the passport number, before giving the same detail to London.
The London duty officer said, ‘More than half the workforce here is on this, all leave cancelled in some departments. JIC are down and involved.’
‘This makes it all worthwhile, hopefully, all the effort,’ I told him.
At midday I called in the teams, whether they were finished or not, boxes lugged, and we had an estimated four hundred rifles in boxes, men sent to get some rest as I worked through another sixteen sat phones and thirty-four passports.
David Finch called. ‘It’s like Christmas here, everyone very excited, already some interesting links thrown up, further arrests here in the UK, and we’ve sent details to Morocco and other countries, for them to investigate. GCHQ are hard at it, a wide pattern of phones linked, and we have a middle man singled out in Egypt, one in Cyprus, calls to Switzerland.
‘CIA have been on a dozen times, French Intel, and some of these men are on the FBI lists. This is ten years worth of intel in one go.’
‘Did you see my note about the Red Cross?’
‘Yes, we passed it on.’
‘Give the Foreign Office a kick, because when the photos of this place come out there’ll be a backlash around North Africa.’
‘You think they’ll cause a reaction?’
‘If you could see what I can see ... you’d believe so. Get on it before the shit starts, or you’ll have a big fucking problem.’
‘I’ll make some calls soon, yes. What’s happening down there?’
‘We’re collecting IDs and phones, and rifles, hope to be out of here tomorrow. Chase up those replacement teams for me.’
‘Will do.’
When my phone trilled it was Colonel Mathews. ‘What’s happening there today?’
‘No one shooting at us at the moment, sir, and we’ve collected a shit load of sat phones and passports, and we have men from all over, one American Pakistani.’
‘Yeah? Jesus. I’ll have to contact the CIA soon.’
‘We have a real treasure trove of intel here, sir, so it worked, just that we paid with a few lives to get this.’
‘Let’s hope the intel pans out, and the TV news here is mainlining it.’
‘Do me a favour, sir, and contact your State Department to contact the Red Cross, to get some people out to collect bodies. When the images of this place are released we will come in for some criticism, probably a shit load.’
‘The B2 bombers?’
‘That and what my men did, there are six hundred bodies spread around, more further out, many cut in half.’
‘Our enemies could use such images, spin the story against us. I’ll get on that today.’
‘Fortunately we’re getting the intel, the passports of the fighters, so we need to get that out there before anyone else spins the story. Oh, what about that replacement team?’
‘Admiral Jacobs will place forty Seals and Marines for a week or so, as men come from the States.’
‘When could they be here?’
‘Today. They’re going ashore by helo, to Sierra Leone, Hercules from there I guess.’
‘Try and get me a timescale, sir.’
‘Will do.’
‘And if you can, get a shit load of body bags from Europe flown down.’
‘I’ll ask where we keep them stored. I get back to you soon.’
Moran led British Echo back in, the last of the teams. He stopped and wiped his brow with a sleeve. ‘You would not ... believe what we saw out there. Fucking craters a hundred yards across, jeeps torn apart like they were made of paper, and body parts everywhere, couldn’t find a whole man.’
Stretch drew level. ‘Fucking bollocking hell,’ he let out. ‘I’m glad our enemies don’t have planes like that.’
Rizzo stepped up. ‘Nasty, that was, real nasty. I’ve seen some dead bodies, but that lot had been in fucking food mixer.’
‘Get some rest,’ I told them.
As most of the men slept I worked through the IDs and passports, keen to get the detail back to London. Easing up and stretching, I could see the holes in the runway, and I pointed them out to Liban. He trotted off to get some men and some concrete. For now I filled holes with sand, which should do, a few deep enough to damage an aircraft wheel.
At 2pm, the day damn hot, I was notified: Hercules inbound. I called down “B” Squadron and “D” Squadron, and called in the Wolf recruits; those teams would leave first.
With the sounds of aircraft getting louder, I shouted for men to make safe weapons and to ditch any grenades. I had to shout again, some of the recruits half asleep, Crab checking weapons, webbing and pockets.
Radio contact made, I told the two USAF Hercules that they were picking up as well as dropping off, and to drop our men either in Sierra Leone or Mauritania.
The first Hercules touched down smoothly, my eyes on the sand-filled holes, but no tyres were shredded. Seals and Marines with heavy bags walked off – all staring south, the Wolf recruits waved on, the regular SAS held back. With the new arrivals knelt where I directed them, the Hercules powered off.
To a Seal Lieutenant I said, ‘Find Captain Castille, Delta Force, down there, ask him to brief you. Get in the trench and get ready, keep your heads down.’
‘What the fuck happened here?’ he asked as he took in the wreckage and the bodies.
‘They sent a lot of men across open ground, we shot them, then your Air Force bombed them – is the short version.’
He led the stunned men off east down the runway, all staring out south, the second Hercules on approach, a puff of grey smoke from the wheels as it hit the runway. Ramp down, more Seals stepped off, heavy bags carried, long rifles in beige holdalls over shoulders, all sent down to the west drain – all staring south, the SAS regulars sent aboard, tired waves given, tired nods issued.
At the west drain I called in the Seals as I stood above them on the runway. ‘There are trenches like this down at the other end, the east end, and a drai
n like this one, great to shelter in when rockets and mortars are coming in, cool to sleep in midday.
‘We have a water pump, water is OK to wash in, OK if you boil it, but plenty of water is delivered.’ I pointed. ‘Out there 300yards is a strip of sand flattened down, going left to right, full of mines, don’t go there. That ditch in front of the row of wrecked jeeps has mines, don’t go there either, rest is safe enough.
‘If mortars or rockets come in - get in the drain, it’s solid, but post a man on watch at all times. The main fight here is over, you should be OK, maybe rockets at night, so sleep in the drain. Get organised quickly, my men are asleep, and try and get on the same radio frequency as the French. Who’s senior?’
‘Here sir.’
‘Go see Captain Castille down there, say hello. Rest of you, keep your heads down, don’t walk around up here too much.’
‘What the hell happened here, sir?’
‘I guess you don’t get the newspapers aboard ship. They attacked, we fought back, they lost.’
‘How many bodies are out there, sir?’
‘A thousand maybe, many hit by your Air Force. Oh, some of the medics in the drain may be asleep, be quiet for them, and there are some wounded prisoners, take care of them.’
At my original sand hole I plonked down before I fell down, my team asleep. I eased back, cap over my face, then woke with a start. Rubbing my face, two hours had passed, Swifty stirring. I stood, stretched and yawned, the sun low on the horizon. No one was calling me, it all seemed quiet enough, so I got a brew on with Swifty.
I told him, ‘Seals and Marines here, I got the Wolf recruits away and the regular SAS. Us next.’
‘Looking forwards to a shower,’ he told me, Moran and Mitch stirring. ‘Get the sand out.’ He pulled out a half-eaten pack of Rolos that were melted, misshapen, and covered in sand. He tossed them away.
I dug down into the sand, and held up two tins, grinning.
‘The secret stash,’ Swifty noted.
‘Well some fucker stole my pineapple, so I hide things now.’ We opened the two tins of pears, eased back and enjoyed them, drinking the juice, the cans finally tossed away.
My phone trilled as the desert turned brown, planes inbound, five of them, a large French contingent on its way. I eased up, stretched, and transmitted, ‘British Echo, get ready to leave in fifteen minutes. RAF Regiment come in, packed ready to go. Veteran Lone Wolves, come in, French teams get ready to leave. Deltas and Greenies, I volunteered you to stay on for six months.’
‘We like it here,’ came from Castille.
‘Get packed up and get ready, there are five aircraft inbound. French teams, on your aircraft, the C160. All teams, leave the GPMGs behind, and the ammo, side of the runway, or hand them over. Leave the mortars here for the next team. Sasha, come up here. Someone tell the medics: RAF medics leave now, Army medics remain, RAF to leave spare kit behind – as well as the goat.
‘British teams, get the webbing and rifles of our wounded men, any kit left behind, or you get billed for it. Senior men, get that kit – or else.’
Stood on the runway, now pock-marked with holes full of sand, some containing recently dried cement, I called Bob Staines. ‘It’s Wilco, and we’re pulling out.’
‘I’ve been following the news worldwide, seems like a hell of a battle unfolded last night.’
‘It was a bit one-sided, but we have dead and wounded. Keep looking at the arms dealers, keep getting names and detail, we’ll be going after them soon.’
‘I have a man in Prague getting me detail, and our mark likes to show off at his club, he’s well exposed.’
‘Good. Talk soon, I’ll be travelling for a bit. Oh, tell Leon that Casper is uninjured and well.’
A sorry looking bunch lined the side of the runway as I patrolled that line. From the RAF Regiment I passed British Echo - and not even Tomo had a witty comment. I spoke to our British Wolves, on to Casper and Sasha – both dead tired, to Max, to the French 1st Battalion, French Echo, the Legion men, all tired and dusty, being informed then that the French mortar teams would remain for now.
‘Make safe all weapons, and double check them, you sleepy bunch of sloppy soldiers!’ I transmitted. ‘Senior men, check for grenades, place the grenades down on the edge of the runway - where they can be seen!’
My lads placed down grenades, a few just chucked them onto the sand, webbing checked, the faces showing the strain. On the opposite side stood the Deltas and the Greenies with their kit, finally a dog tired Morten and his team coming up with bags.
I asked Morten, ‘Will the prisoners live?’
‘Some will, yes, but a loss of blood will cause the loss of limbs for some though.’
‘Is the goat in good hands?’ I asked with a tired dusty smile.
‘The Army said they’d feed it.’
Stepping to Liban, I said, ‘Find a volunteer to stay behind and brief the next team, show where the mines are, how to use the water pump.’
The Legion captain offered to remain for a few days, with a sergeant.
Hearing aircraft, I transmitted, ‘Teams on the runway, kneel down.’ Men bent slowly at the knee, some taking five seconds to accomplish that simple task.
An RAF Hercules touched down first – my nervous eyes on the wheels, half of British Echo waved on, the RAF Regiment and Max with his heavy kit, plus the Deltas. I gave the crewman a thumbs-up, the Hercules powering away.
A C160 touched down next, French soldiers coming off pushing a water bogey and a fuel bogey, French soldiers on, both the Legion and 1st Battalion men, and I had the Greenies board, seeing that there was plenty of room. Noticing the two American journalists lugging their kit, I pointed them aboard.
The second C160 blew up sand as it hit, ramp down and French soldiers off, pallets pushed off, French Echo on, waves given, tired nods given. The first USAF Hercules touched down, more Marines and Seals off, pallets pushed off, all of the men lugging heavy bags, all staring south, the remainder of British Echo boarding with our veteran Wolves, and that would be all those men set to depart now aboard a plane somewhere, the final USAF Hercules to drop off men and kit.
I sat before we powered off down the runway, and levelling off I asked the crewman where we were going? He informed me that our destination was Mauritania, not Sierra Leone. I made a paper sign and passed it around, the men knowing they had five hours to sleep, Sasha and Casper already sat with eyes closed. I closed my own eyes, but just for a minute, a lot on my mind.
Opening my eyes, we were taxiing around, the ramp coming down as I rubbed my face and peered out, seeing a familiar apron with a puzzled frown. Checking my watch, I stood, men kicked awake, gear grabbed, a bunch of half-dead soldiers soon walking off. I grabbed the heavy bag of IDs and phones.
The Squadron Leader met me. ‘Your same barracks is available, your metal trunks there I think.’
‘Anyone else here?’
‘The SAS went to Sierra Leone, back with their units they said, the French are here, and some Americans, medics and some reporters. And there’s a big team of French doctors here to look you all over.’
‘First a shower, sir, then some food.’ I handed him the heavy bag of IDs and phones. ‘Give those to French Intel urgently. I need a list typed up and sent to London and Washington. The French need to look for numbers dialled from the phones – that’s important.’
‘I’ll make sure they understand.’
I led my team off past the hangars, a long walk to the barracks and up the stairs, our crates where we left them. I shouted, ‘Get in the shower with your kit on, wash it, then wash yourselves!
‘If you have a head wound, keep your cap on, or a plastic bag, or put some cream on first and afterwards, but soapy water won’t hurt your stitches.’
I dumped my rifle on my bed - the blankets and sheets having been folded by someone, notepad and maps down, phone down, pockets checked, and I walked to the showers with a few of the lads, all in full kit, caps still on heads.
Water turned on, we stood under the nozzles, soon seeing brown water running across the floor, sand collecting.
I washed my cap – my head wound stinging a little, washed my webbing, easing it off and holding it up to the spray, the dust washed off. Bandolier off, I held it up, turning it inside out as men copied, soon shaking it, the water running brown under our boots, our boots now black again. Shirt off, I rinsed it out, knelt and undid my boots, soon holding the boots up to the water so that they filled – shampoo added, hopefully lessening the smell a little. Kit in the corner, socks off, I washed the socks and my shirt with the shampoo provided.
Pants off, I washed them as well, finally washing myself, the water under my feet still brown, and I could feel the sand as I moved, soon sweeping the sand with my feet towards the drain, sure to clog it. And the lads, they all had brown faces and forearms, the rest of their skin pale in comparison.
With all my wet kit in my arms I held it under the flow, asking Moran to pour shampoo on it. When done I padded out leaving a wet trail, hopefully no glass left embedded in the floor. At my bed I dumped my wet kit on the lino floor, grabbing one of the clean towels provided, the floor soaking wet. Still, it was warm as hell, the windows open.
Opening my metal trunk via the combination lock, I grabbed clean-ish pants, a clean-ish shirt needing ironing, and socks that needed a wash. Dressed, wet boots back on, Swifty dressed quickly. When ready, Moran and Mitch putting on shirts, we walked out, telling the lads we were heading for the canteen – someone to stay on stag for an hour.
We found a moderately quiet canteen, Castille and his team eating - still in their stinking dusty clothes, trays grabbed, plates grabbed, food pointed at. I sat with a huge portion, a drink of juice to hand, and ravenously tackled the plate as if I had not eaten in two weeks.
‘Your mamma never tell you to eat your food slowly, Boy?’ a tired Castille asked.
‘Did you eat yours slowly?’ I asked.