During the Second World War, David Stirling, founder of the SAS, had just outlined to Field Marshal Montgomery an audacious plan for one single squadron of SAS to penetrate miles behind heavily fortified enemy lines to attack the Tripoli to Tobruk coastal road along a 400mile front. Montgomery paused for a moment, then turned to his staff officers and said: 'Gentleman, the boy Stirling is mad. Quite, quite mad. But in war, there is a place for mad people.'
THE STORY OF AN SAS HERO
PETE WINNER
MICHAEL PAUL KENNEDY
Contents
Foreword
New Territory
Initiation
Sickener 1
Sickener 2
From Hereford to the Jebel Massif
Isolation Ward
Operation Jaguar
Transfer
The Battle of Mirbat
Belfast
Hong Kong
A Visit from the Colonel
The Embassy Siege
The Falklands
Fallen Comrades
Frustration
The Final RV
When the Camp Gates Close
On the Circuit
Champagne and Diamonds
The Sultan's Palace
Aid Convoy
Port and Stilton
My Kingdom for a Stinger
Banned and Blackballed
A Living Hell
On the Ragged Edge
The Bodyguard
Mafia in Moscow
Revenge is Sweet
Postcript
Glossary
Foreword
I first met Pete (or Snapper as he was called then) in 1984. I had just joined the SAS at the age of 24, and had been sent out to join the rest of B Squadron in the jungles of South East Asia.
I'd only just been introduced to the rest of the troop and was enjoying a quick brew with them under the canopy, when Snapper and four of his mates came crashing through the jungle, looking for the new boy. It didn't take long for Snapper's torchlight to find me, and from the residual glow of the fire we were brewing our tea on, I got a vague glimpse of him: a tall, bearded guy, with a flat face and a nose broken so badly it seemed to be heading east when he was facing north. His accent was dramatic Northern, and he stretched the last word of the sentence he spat out at me, as he and his mates loomed over me in the darkness. 'You a fookin' Masonnnnnn?'
Snapper was obsessed; he was sure that the Freemasons were infiltrating the Regiment. It had become a running joke – the troop had set up a 'lodge' in the jungle, where Snapper and his mates spent their evenings conducting spoof rituals with their trouser legs rolled up. That was my first meeting with the man who'd become Soldier 'I', and fortunately, I was able to reassure him that I hadn't been sent by the Masons on any kind of secret mission. But my first impression of Snapper was that he was as mad as box of frogs, and someone I would do well to keep away from.
The next time I came across Snapper was when our squadron was back in the UK and we were in training to join the counter-terrorist team. I spent quite a lot of time with him during those months as we practised our 'room clearing' skills in the training building in Hereford known within the Regiment as 'The Killing House'. The Killing House was the only place where the Regiment's assault teams were able to fire live ammunition, and it was here where I really began to see Snapper's skills first-hand. Of course, it turned out that there was a whole lot more to Snapper than I had first thought.
Snapper was, and is, a Regimental institution. An outstanding soldier, he was one of the SAS troopers who successfully stormed the Iranian Embassy in 1980. He also played an enormous role in the Falklands War in 1982. If that isn't enough, Snapper was also one of the pioneers of undercover operations in Northern Ireland. He tells it all here in his remarkable book.
But perhaps Snapper's greatest piece of soldiering took place in the battle of Mirbat, which occurred during Operation Storm – the secret war fought by the British in Oman in 1972. Over 250 well-armed Communist insurgents attacked the isolated SAS base near the coastal resort of Mirbat, and Snapper (manning the machine gun) together with eight fellow SAS soldiers, chose to fight against overwhelming odds until reinforcements arrived. If the Communists had come to dominate this area, the whole of the Western world would have been held to ransom, since over half of the world's oil passes through the Straits of Hormuze, just off Oman in the Persian Gulf. But the nine men resisted fiercely, and pretty much won the war single-handedly. For this reason, Operation Storm remains one of the most famous actions ever carried out by the SAS, and to this day, is one of the Regiment's proudest moments.
But Snapper's skills don't stop there. Many of the undercover techniques that he helped to develop are still used by the Regiment today in their anti-terrorist operations. They certainly helped me tremendously during my two years in Northern Ireland as an undercover operator.
Snapper is a true innovator, and really pushed the boundaries of soldiering within the Regiment. It was always him who would say, 'Let's try it a different way,' or, 'Hang on a minute, what if we do it like this instead?' There's a real creativity to the art of combat, and Snapper has it in spades. Not only during training back in Hereford, but also out in the field where it really counts. Without people like Snapper, the Regiment would not be the same professional fighting force it is today.
If it's Regimental war stories you are after, Snapper's are among the very best. Sure, he might have had the occasional incident of paranoia along the way, but as one of our mates, Nish, always used to say back in the jungle, 'Just because you are paranoid doesn't mean that no-one is out to get you.'
I met up with Snapper again in Kabul, in 2006. It was great to see him, even if he did make me pay for the tea. He was still as mad as a box of frogs, and had enough weapons and radios dangling off him to take on the whole of the Taliban single-handed. Nothing much had changed. But seeing him out in Afghanistan reminded me once more of the debt the British Army owes to guys like Snapper. If you think of the soldiers running around in body armour and helmets in Afghanistan today, spare a thought too for Snapper and his fellow soldiers. Apart from their weapons, the only kit they had back then was a pair of shorts and desert boots. Remarkably, they still managed to win through, and this book shows you how.
This is a book by a true soldier, who really gets what soldiering is all about – the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Andy McNab DCM MM
New Territory
'You are a time bomb, trooper, a time bomb just waiting to explode.'
The Colonel's words were still beating in my head as I lay back on the bed. His face, bulging with anger as he roared out his verdict, floated before me. It did not matter whether I opened my eyes or closed them, he was still there, accusing, taunting, assailing my self-respect. 'What happened yesterday was a total disgrace, a total insult to the Regiment. We cannot and will not tolerate this behaviour. You've had your chances but this is the last straw.' A time bomb waiting to explode.
This was it then. The end of the road. On Colonel's orders for the third time. That must be some kind of record. Usually Colonel's orders meant you were finished, RTU'd, out in the cold. I was lucky. I was still serving with the SAS – at least for a little while longer, anyway. It all now hinged on the official medical reports. The Colonel seemed confident that they would provide the ammunition he needed. He had me right in the middle of his sights now. He could pull the trigger at any time.
I looked around me nervously. Ward 11 of the British Army Psychiatric Unit – the thinking man's Belsen. Was this really the end of the line? Everything in the room was white, clinical and empty. Empty walls, empty windowsill, empty tabletops, empty cupboards. My holdall lay slumped on the floor
unopened. I reached down into a side-pocket and pulled out a picture of my favourite pin-up, smoothed out the creases and wedged it into a tiny gap at the top of the bedside table. It was a relief to see the splash of colour, the bright, smiling face, the beckoning body.
I glanced out of the single window. Nothing but dreary grey London rooftops. A feeling of isolation swept over me. I turned back to the room and swung wide the cupboard doors, rattled open every drawer, gazing into the emptiness, seeking clues. There wasn't a single trace of the previous detainee – not even a shirt button, a screwed-up ticket or the cellophane wrapper from a cigarette packet. Everything had been swept clinically clean. If only I could have found something, no matter how small, it would have given me some sense of reality, a feeling that others had passed this way before me.
I prowled around the room like a caged animal. This was new, unfamiliar territory. I was jetlagged from the sudden transfer from camp, heady from disorientation. I needed to establish my base, my reference point, my safety zone. At least in the jungle or in the mountains you knew the likely spots where the enemy might be waiting. Training and experience taught you where danger lurked. But here it was different. There was a feeling of threat, but I could not tell where it was coming from or how bad it was going to be. I needed to unscramble my head.
It was like being in an enemy pen, except the guards wore white coats. I'd been told there was even an escape committee – the boys in the pathology lab. They'd test my blood every day and wouldn't let me go under the wire until my LFT count was down to normal.
I came in on a Thursday. The first few days would be observation. I knew what that meant. I knew all the tricks of the interrogation trade. They'd put me under stress by making sure I was completely bored. Completely deprived of all my normal activities and pleasures. Then they'd monitor me to see if I was showing any signs of stress or unusual behaviour: apprehension, restlessness, weird tendencies, withdrawal symptoms. Then, after they'd softened me up, the advanced sentence, the brainwashing would begin.
The door opened and a white-coated nurse came in. He looked at me very closely. Not a flicker of emotion registered on his face. He said nothing. I wondered whether he was one of them, part of the system. I imagined him making mental notes, assessing the situation in detail: where I was in the room, whether I'd arranged my things, my general demeanour and my facial expression. He put a small, brown tray on the bedside table, glanced at the pin-up, then at me. I wondered if this had been my first mistake. There was a plastic beaker of water on the tray and two torpedo-shaped pills, bright green at one end, pink at the other. 'Take both of them,' was all the orderly said as he quickly retreated, locking the door behind him.
I decided to go along with the game at this stage, play it by their rules. They'd know anyway from the urine samples whether I'd taken the pills or not. I picked up one of the torpedoes, held it up to the light and rolled it between my finger and thumb. I wondered why they'd chosen these particular pills, what mind-bending drug was concealed in the thousands of tiny balls cascading around inside the coloured cases. I wondered what ragged phantoms would come springing out to haunt me from deep within my psyche after being locked away for all these years. I wondered who 'they' were, the faceless doctors I'd yet to meet. Would they be distant and calculating like the orderly, or would they be friendly and sympathetic, creep up on me and catch me with my guard down, trick me into trusting them? Was that the deadly ambush that awaited me? Sod it! Who dares wins! Here's to Queen and country… I grabbed both the pills and gulped them down. A faint smile of steely defiance curled on my lips.
Outside, the wind grew stronger and the dark clouds jostled and thickened. Scuds of rain crackled against the window with increasing frequency. Suddenly, the pregnant clouds burst their waters and spawned tiny, watery serpents which slithered down the glass panes, frantically seeking the sanctuary of some unseen pool below.
I sank onto the bed and closed my eyes. 'You're a time bomb, trooper, a time bomb just waiting to explode.' I tried to shake the Colonel out of my head. Then, from nowhere, a confusion of pictures burst into my mind. A kaleidoscope of scenes from fourteen years of remote battles and secret operations spun in front of me. It was just like the high-speed slide show of farms, villages, towns and cities that had flashed before my eyes as I'd gazed blankly out of the car window driving down the M4 from Hereford to London. Back through time my mind slid on a crazy helter-skelter ride: the Falklands War, the Embassy siege, Hong Kong, Northern Ireland, the battle of Mirbat, Operation Jaguar.
Before I knew it, the sharp odour of cordite was stinging my nostrils again. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I heard again the distinctive thwack of a bullet hitting bone and flesh. I shuddered at the banshee-screams of the wounded, grown men reduced to grovelling, frightened children calling unashamedly for their mothers, amid the roar of battle – shrieks of terror whose echoes would resound forever.
Round and round I tumbled, freefalling through the whirling pictures. Then, suddenly, I was sucked through the black hole at the centre of the spinning kaleidoscope.
Initiation
'Good morning, gentlemen, welcome to Bradbury Lines.'
It was spring 1970. A dozen rows of hopeful recruits sat facing the Colonel, 135 of us in all. The Colonel smiled a cold half-smile. At his station in life, he had left far behind the feelings of trepidation that we were now all experiencing at the start of this new venture. He stood in front of us on the stage of the training-wing theatre, a slightly weatherbeaten figure dressed in an old camouflage windproof and a pair of faded OG trousers. Even the famous beret looked a little discoloured. He was leaning on the lecturing stand, smoking an old roll-up and flicking the ash into an empty pyrotechnic container. He had the appearance of a man who was used to roughing it, but the unruly look went only as far as his dress. His hard, chiselled features and steady unflinching gaze told a different story, the story of a man who knew his mind with clinical precision.
'You have a difficult task ahead of you. First, three weeks of rigorous selection, during which time we subject you to what we colloquially and, I might add, very appropriately refer to as Sickener 1 and Sickener
2. Then, fourteen weeks of continuation training, a parachute course, and finally combat survival training. Nearly twenty-six weeks of exhaustive scrutiny. Half a year of uncertainty. You could get your
marching orders at any point along the way – usually when you least expect it. We've even been known to fail someone on their very last day!'
A ripple of unease and a hardening of resolve flickered through the assembled rows.
'The SAS is only as effective as the people in it. Think about that. It's a crucial point. A field commander might devise a perfect plan for winning a battle, but without strong, co-ordinated support from the men on the ground, all would be lost.'
The Colonel's eyes penetratingly scanned the intent faces of his audience.
'It was said of Lord Nelson that his whole fleet acted as if they were one great marine body directed by a single intelligence. What we are looking for over the next few weeks are men to join our regimental body, to become one with us. But not just any men. They've got to be the right men, special men. Men with initiative, stamina, intelligence, patience and not least a sense of humour. In Korea, the British Army had thousands fighting thousands. With the SAS it's different. We are a specialist group within the British Army. We are special because we operate in small groups and we move alone. We are not looking for team players. What we want is the individualist, the man who can survive on his own but who has the self-discipline to work as part of a team.'
I gazed abstractedly at the Colonel, taking in the details of his clothing. I noticed the winged-dagger badge sewn onto his beret. I fixed my eyes with envy and determination on that badge, and for a moment I was mesmerized as his head moved in rhythm with his speech.
The Colonel flicked the ash off his roll-up and his eyes took on a hardened look. 'There's always been
war and there always will be war. Look at any decade, it's always the same: 1961 Kuwait, 1962 Brunei, '63 Borneo, '64 East Africa, '67 Aden, '68 Belfast. It's an endless litany. When the social workers run out, someone's got to wave the big stick. When society's body is ill, someone's got to take care of it. Whether it's the ice-laden mountains or the scorching deserts, the steaming jungles or the stinking souks, the windswept moorlands or the sinister streets, we'll be there. Terrorists, guerrillas, insurgents, freedom fighters, call them what you will, we'll be there.
'There will be plenty of excitement and adventure, but you won't be paraded as heroes for all to see. America suffered from fighting the Vietnam War in the full glare of the media. Public opinion handcuffed the generals to the rulebook. Here in the SAS we learn from other people's mistakes. No publicity, no media. We move in silently, do our job, and melt away into the background. You won't achieve fame and fortune with us. But what you will achieve is self-respect, deep selfrespect, and a unique identity as part of a group who have found that same self-respect. The few of you who succeed will not just be joining a regiment, you'll be joining a family, a very exclusive family. If you have got the stamina, the willpower and the guts, we'll welcome you with open arms and make you one of us. And if you haven't, then it's been very nice knowing you.' The Colonel looked up and down the rows again with searching eyes, then swiftly walked off the stage.
Soldier I Page 1