by Geoff Wolak
‘Good, no local farmers in the mix.’
‘Nigerians are happily checking names for us and giving home regions – as well as any known affiliations, and they’re matching the militias by region. So it never was three thousand men, not within ten miles of you, I’d say just under two thousand given the numbers that streamed down the road after the battle.’
‘That initial figure came from here,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, given the traffic jam, many never got close to you.’
I thanked the team before I left, and they all had questions of “What was it like?”, so I stood for twenty minutes answering questions.
Driving back, Paul MacManners called. ‘Are you awake and fresh?’
‘Just been to GCHQ to look at numbers.’
‘Can you pop up tomorrow?’
‘Sure, what time?’
‘Big pow-wow at 2pm.’
‘I’ll be there. MOD building?’
‘Vauxhall.’
Back at GL4 I rallied many of the lads, the offer of a free curry tempting many a tired man out, a few of the Wolves joining us, armed police on duty outside as we crammed the quiet Indian restaurant later, many men displaying scabs and scars, a dozen with bandages on heads and looking silly, Rocko joining us.
Rizzo asked, ‘We get a bonus for this job?’
‘Yes, a beer,’ I told him, Moran teasing him.
To Swifty I announced, ‘You’re now a staff sergeant, your own troop.’
Men puzzled that.
‘Who’s troop?’ Rizzo puzzled.
‘The Wolves, they’ll stay with us,’ I told Rizzo, Swifty appearing shocked. To Swifty I said, ‘Ten to start, more to follow, forms to fill in, training to organise.’
‘Who ... me?’
‘You started off doing the lone missions, you got the experience, and who else is going to do it? Crab is your 2ic, he’ll be involved when not in stores, and Crab did an excellent job with the Wolves training, and the battle.’ I waved at Crab, men turning heads. ‘Sergeant Crab, you did an excellent job training the Wolves, and during the battle. You’ll get a small bonus.’
‘Oh ... thanks, Boss.’
‘And my bonus?’ Tomo asked. ‘I hit that plane.’
I pulled out a hundred quid and handed it over. ‘Beer money.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’
‘Sergeant Major, don’t forget to fine him fifty quid.’
‘Fine me? For what?’ Tomo protested.
‘Did you admit on the radio, in front of all the foreign teams, to shooting an enemy commander in the balls?’
‘He did,’ they all shouted, Tomo shrinking a little as they teased him.
Rocko turned to him. ‘Shouldn’t have boasted about it.’
I began, ‘He got the phone off a dead commander, and rang the guy’s wife – asking what she was wearing.’
Moran put in, ‘He used that phone to call his mum, then Swan called his parents, then Nicholson, then Jacque rang home, so I think that guy’s wife will be getting the bill.’
I shook my head. ‘That phone is listed as a known terrorist phone, now linked to Tomo’s mum.’
‘Oh shit,’ Swifty theatrically stated. ‘Dawn raids by the police.’
I called Tinker. ‘Listen, one of the phones that we got from a dead guy early on, my lads all used it to call their parents, so if you see some odd calls to the UK and France then ignore them.’
‘I’ll send an email now. Could have wasted a lot of time for us that could have!’
‘Don’t whinge, I warned you in time, eh.’ I hung up.
Moran laughed and shook his head. ‘I can just see the newspaper headline: SAS soldier’s mother gets arrested.’
‘Captain, if you see them doing that again, stop them please,’ I told him. ‘Or the Press are going to discover that Tomo’s parents are actually brother and sister.’
‘That would explain a great deal,’ Swifty noted.
‘I figured they were,’ Rocko agreed.
In the morning I chatted with many groups, most of the lads setting off somewhere for a break, Swifty heading down to the south coast for some solitary time away, and some fishing. At 11am I set off with MP Pete, both of us in civvy dress, pistols hidden, and we chatted as we drove along the M4 east.
Reaching London we crossed the river as if heading to Richmond, and we stayed south of the river till we got to Vauxhall, soon in the underground car park, the car being searched as I headed to the lifts. I was met by Bob’s old assistant that became David Finch’s assistant that was now Paul MacManner’s assistant.
The super-clean lift took us up to the sixth floor, and I was led down a corridor of tinted glass panels to a large conference room, a dozen white boards set-up, papers and files on the desk, a dozen men and women sat there. Glancing at the white boards, I could see that the diagrams were similar to those at GCHQ.
Tea made, the assembled group asked questions of the battle and of the conditions till Paul MacManners came in.
He began, ‘We have the JIC with us, and you can’t really avoid them ... or shoot them, and some chaps from the Cabinet Office, as well as the new Defence Secretary.’
I nodded. ‘I promise not to shoot anyone.’
He sat, pointing me to a seat, questions about the intel I got and from who, when it came in, but I had to skim over intel from Bob Staines.
‘Gorskov?’ he finally asked.
‘He played a small part in helping the men who came to kill Lesley, unaware of what the job was. He’s very sorry, and in hiding. I have no plans to go shoot him, nor do I think anyone else should.’
Paul nodded, considering that. ‘And Libintov?’
‘Is proving invaluable.’
‘There are questions being asked about the mines...’
‘We found a truck with mines on, shot the men and stole it. As far as the outside world is concerned ... that was two or three trucks.’
‘The MOD are concerned, because it takes special permission to plant mines.’
‘The mines are now roped off, they’re in one small area, and that airfield is a hundred miles from anywhere, no roads, a track that is blocked, so unless you’re on a camel - and very, very lost - you won’t accidentally step on a mine.’
‘That is the one good thing, yes. There may be a few shitty questions from the JIC, because they work for the government – which is now a Labour government.’
I nodded.
Fifteen minutes later we walked to another room, the JIC sat around a large oval desk, a space left for me – isolated at one end, the grey-haired Defence Minister all smiles and shaking my hand. He knew my popularity in the Press and would not make a political mistake here.
I sat, a fresh brew placed down.
‘Thank you for attending here today, Captain,’ a familiar face began, the rotund old chairman of the JIC. The American JIC candidate was not present. ‘Are you ... well?’
‘No injuries. Thanks.’
He offered a supercilious smile. ‘Good good. Well, starting from the end and working backwards, we’re getting some criticism of our handling of the dead and the wounded. What steps did you take, as far as the dead and wounded were concerned?’
‘After the first small battle we buried the few men we killed, marked the spot for later recovery. After the first real battle we moved out at first light and brought in wounded, and we buried the dead, again marking the spot for later moving.’
‘Later moving..?’
‘International law says that bodies must be returned to loved ones claiming them, at least in most conflicts. So we created shallow graves and marked them with sticks. We would not have been allowed to bury them deep in unmarked graves.’
‘No, quite. And the wounded?’
‘Those men still alive after the first battle - and there were not many, we handed to the medics, then London called Lagos and arranged a plane, the wounded flown south, doctor and nurse on board.’
‘So we were being overly accommod
ating, I’d say.’
‘Yes. And after the final battle I sent men out, men who were very tired, wounded, and they brought in any wounded fighters they found, left with the Army medics when we departed, I have no idea what happened to them.’
‘They were flown to Lagos and handed over, to become prisoners, along with the first few. Tell me, why so few left alive?’
‘We fire high power rifles, we typically hit a man twice in the chest, so the chances of survival are very slim. We also fired machineguns, and we launched a great many mortars. It was a fierce battle, but many wounded walked off south only to be caught by the American bombing.’
‘And who asked for that bombing?’
‘This was an American operation, not a British one.’
‘Not a British one?’ the Defence Secretary puzzled.
‘The Americans had the agreement with the Nigerians, no agreement with Britain and France, we supported their men in the desert, but Colonel Mathews passed operational control on the ground to me since I had the experience and his men did not.
‘Day before the final battle I was informed that bombers were on their way. On the night of the battle I was asked what they should bomb and I directed them south to the vehicles parked there, not too close to my men.’
‘And what was your thinking?’ the JIC asked.
‘There were a great many men seen to the south, mounted fifty cal, heavy weapons, and we were led to believe that there were many more men lined up to attack us, so I asked that the Americans bomb that area.’
‘And they carpet bombed a traffic jam...’
‘They did, most effectively. We didn’t find a body that was still intact, just pieces.’
The Defence Secretary asked, ‘And we know who those men were?’
‘Intel has the various groups identified, sir, and most were militias from around the region, Islamist militias who like to hack up Christians for fun or shoot at the Nigerian police and army, plus outsiders – including a dentist from Bradford.’
‘A dark stain, yes,’ he agreed. ‘And more like him.’
‘Twenty-five like him, sir. Plus the Egyptians, Moroccans and others.’
The JIC nudged, ‘You killed Nigerian Army personnel...’
‘We didn’t know who they were to start with, just that they were setting up artillery aimed at us.’
‘They may have been just out for some practise...’
‘Please don’t make yourself look stupid here, it’s embarrassing,’ I told him, the man recoiling. ‘To get to the position they were setting up their artillery in they would have driven five hundred miles through territory that no Nigerian Army personnel ever venture unless in a well-armed group looking for trouble.
‘The Nigerian Army doesn’t venture that far north without getting themselves killed. They have no bases up there, none within hundreds of miles, all down south. You only drive through that region if the Islamists allow you to.’
The Defence Secretary shot the JIC man a look. ‘Perhaps we can avoid flippant suggestions.’
‘Of course,’ the man awkwardly conceded. ‘You shot down a Nigerian TV station’s aircraft...’
‘We got a warning from GCHQ that an aircraft would attack us. It came in low after the warning, we fired and damaged it, it landed. We only found out afterwards that the crew were on a spying mission. Intel from GCHQ was vague.’
‘I see. And the two small aircraft?’
‘They flew in low, fired missiles at us, so we shot them down. Intel suggests they came from Mali.’
‘And the tanks came from Mali as well?’
‘Yes, that is what Intel suggested, a reserve army unit that took a bribe.’
‘And yet the records don’t show London informing you of such a threat...’
I knew it was a trick. ‘I get intel from the French and the CIA as well.’
The Defence Secretary asked, ‘They deal with you direct?’
‘Much of the time, sir, since timeliness is very important. I sometimes get a warning of an attack ten minutes beforehand. How long would that take if it went through proper channels?’
‘Probably a week,’ he agreed.
The JIC man asked, ‘And an aircraft, a transport C160, simply flew towards you and ... crashed.’
‘It did. I got a warning from the French of a large aircraft packed with a chemical, so I moved the teams out, to the north. The plane came in ... but crashed.’
‘Your men did not shoot it down?’
‘No one fired, it was out of range.’
‘How very odd.’
I said, ‘One of the tanks approaching us threw a tread before it even got a shot off. How very odd.’
He knew I was taking the piss, so did everyone else. ‘Moving on. You took to this desert base a group of new recruits...’
‘New as far as special forces go, but all had served at least four years and were highly skilled servicemen prior to selection. They were all selected for the fact that they were way better than the average servicemen here or in the States.’
‘And you’re actively involved in training the American contingent...’
‘I do what I’m asked, and with a cheery smile.’
The Defence Secretary ginned.
‘And the British Wolves are to be taken under your wing...’
‘Yes.’
‘And their role..?’
‘Long range recon missions, solitary missions. But when they don’t have such a role to fulfil they’ll fight alongside my men, as they did in this case and in previous conflicts.’
‘And the new presence of American special forces teams in West Africa..?’
I faced the Defence Secretary. ‘When they ask me questions like that I sometimes think I’m the Prime Minister, the man making the decisions, when in reality I do as I’m told.’
He turned to the head of the JIC. ‘Why are you asking him about policy between nations?’
‘I believe he had a hand in setting it all up, so I was curious as the motives and the ... game plan.’
I faced the Defence Secretary again. ‘The previous Prime Minister told me to keep the Americans happy, and he allowed them to have direct contact with me, from their special forces chief, a Colonel Mathews.
‘What that colonel wants is what everyone wants, a good newspaper headline and more power to his elbow. He asked if I would assist, I discussed it with the former Prime Minister, and the PM said to assist them and to train their men.
‘By assist, what he meant was to use our intel in West Africa to find a few hostages being held by three deaf, dumb and blind teenagers, and to stage a large rescue using American soldiers, a reporter to hand of course. They got their story, the PM was happy, I played my role.
‘What they now want is more such stories, and a wider role in North Africa, and in return we get the use of their aircraft and ships, and it has been suggested that they would allow British and French soldiers into their bases in the Middle East, yet to be seen.’
‘So it’s a trade off,’ he noted. ‘All the parties swap assets and intel, and all try and look good from it. I’m aware that the French often pretend that the men are all theirs, and even New Zealand makes claims about their men on these jobs.’
I smiled. ‘We have one New Zealander, sir, but they often list him as a platoon. We had two French soldiers, always listed as a platoon, and we have one American soldier – always saving the day by himself.’
He laughed. ‘And this Audie Murphy descendent?’
‘Audie Murphy’s step-brother’s great grandson.’
‘So not even a proper link then.’
‘No, sir, but special forces operations and the Houses of Parliament have a great deal in common -’
‘People who tell tall tales and inflate their own reputations whilst double dealing like snakes..?’
I smiled. ‘You said it, sir, not me.’
‘So with the Americans it’s give and take, same with the French.’
‘Yes, si
r, and every rescue gets the credit split three ways. One pint of beer shared by three men, and they all claim to have drunk the most.’
‘It’s good to get a perspective like that from you, they said you cut through the bullshit. So regarding the battle in the desert … we could not be criticised for anything?’
‘We tended the wounded, sir, and sent them off. And no men were seen to finish off the wounded.’
‘That accusation has been levelled at you?’
‘Yes, sir. We operate in small teams, often behind the lines and surrounded. We shoot, then we run like hell, we can’t stop to give first aid.’
‘But some people expect you to..?’
‘They expect us to operate as men did in 1945. But in 1945 our Commandos dropping behind the lines always silenced wounded men before moving on, despite the Geneva Convention. Fact is, sir, it’s ridiculous to suggest that a four-man patrol stops to give first aid to ten men they just wounded, that we call in a helicopter for the wounded or try to carry the wounded out of there. It’s not conventional warfare, sir.’
‘Even I understand that bit. And this latest conflict, what’s your take on the paymasters?’
‘The Americans, and our own Intel agencies, have direct evidence against rich Saudis, but London and Washington don’t dare upset them.’
‘No, because they own too much of our stock markets. If they pulled out we’d see a crash that would destroy the economy, and if they raised oil prices we’d be screwed, so I understand the politics of it.’
‘So we do what we can, sir, and shoot the foot soldiers, and next year we’ll do it all again.’
They asked innocuous questions for fifteen minutes, and were done, the Defence Secretary thanking me before he shot off, the JIC thanking me with less gusto, the Cabinet Office guys hiding their grins.
I was led upstairs and to the Director, David Finch and Paul MacManners waiting, tea made for me.
‘Did you ... get irate?’ David asked me.
‘No, I ignored the JIC and spoke directly to the Defence Secretary, and he’s a fan. But I could tell the JIC were curious about my intel sources. I said the French provided intel.’