No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  Every now and then our soldiers would call out in an attempt to get information on what exactly went on, and to find out if Renamo were on the offensive and heading this way. Then Brad appeared, fully dressed. He looked agitated. 'Right Steve, round up the rest of the team. "0" Group in the mess in ten minutes. Tell them to bring all their kit with 'em. Looks like some shit is coming our way.' He disappeared back into his basha.

  There was no need to reply or to rally up the guys, because they were already all up, waiting to see what the next move would be.

  This was going to be pretty serious. It would be the first time I had been in Africa as a civilian in uniform, not as a soldier of the Crown under the umbrella of the British Government.

  We all gathered to listen to what Brad had to say. Earlier he had been to see Colonel Rameka, the CO of the SF. Now he was standing by the ops map, pointing with a pencil. 'Right. I'll get straight on with it. What happened last night was that a force of Renamo staged a night attack on this village some 30 ks to our north. The result can be seen outside, a few hundred fleeing villagers. Only one village was attacked, but as a result of its exodus, people from other surrounding villages decided not to hang about, so they did a runner as well.'

  He paused while Colonel Rameka and three of his officers joined us.

  'Any more news, Colonel?' Brad asked.

  'No. Only we have made contact with the air base at Nampula and that they are aware of the attack,' the Colonel replied in broken English.

  'Good. Did you request an aircraft to fly in and stand by?'

  'Yes, of course, but all the aircraft that were available have now been detailed on other missions. It appears that Renamo are co-ordinating many attacks around the country. So we have to wait.'

  At that moment things weren't too bad, although we didn't have an escape plan. No, what we really required was a Casevac plan should the shit truly hit the fan. The last thing any of us wanted was to get into a firefight, get seriously wounded and not be able to get out. The MSF people were very good, but they had their own set of patients and problems and weren't really geared up to treat battlefield injuries.

  Brad continued his briefing. 'I've talked it over with the Colonel and we've come up with a plan. Let me run it by you all first, then I'll take any suggestions. Remember, let's not hang about here discussing the pros and cons. The important thing is that we get OPs on the ground as soon as possible to get established some kind of "trigger", an early warning system.'

  Brad explained that we had no real intelligence of the attacking force and that we did not really know if they were heading this way. The usual form of past attacks was that Renamo would usually 'shoot and scoot'. However, since the previous night's attack appeared outside the norm, we had to assume the worst.

  It was even more unusual that there were no available aircraft at Nampula to come to our aid. Rumour had it (the suspected source one of the interpreters, who always seemed to come up with 'A1' intelligence) that they had come under attack and that all aircraft had flown down south for safety. This might mean that Renamo was intending to mount a full-scale attack on Cuamba, to test our capabilities, at the least. They must have got wind by now that we were not there to build the town hall, but to train up a Special Force.

  A few ideas were thrown about, but it was soon decided that Kenny and 20 men would stay back to man the radio and act as camp and compound guard. Kenny's main priority would be to try and establish communications with Uri (the roving Antanov pilot) and let him know of our possible plight. The rest of us would shoot off up north in the wagons, to a position just a couple of ks past the ranges, set up OPs in line with one another, and try and establish comms between each of the OPs and Kenny back at base.

  The maps we had been using were not much use, so trying to plan or show our troops exactly what we were proposing was very difficult. Still, since all of us now knew this particular area well enough — we had carried out enough dry platoon attacks over it during the past weeks — setting up OPs and road-blocks was not going to be a problem. The only difficulty was that we had a limited amount of radios, which most of the time didn't work further than a few ks; and that was in line of sight. It was decided that we would drop off four men at a point halfway between the base and our proposed OPs, then test comms until they could talk to us as well as back to Kenny. In turn, these four would act as a relay station between the OPs and base.

  The whole operation was planned 'on the hoof and in situations like these you can't have an attitude of a 'classroom course' soldier. You can't expect things to go like clockwork. Life in battle had taught all of us on the team this fact many times. Basically, it's all down to the experience of the men who you work alongside with. Our deployment tactics were based on the acronym KISS: Keep It Simple — Stupid. If everyone is in tune with one another, switched on to what's going down, then things will tend to go your way. Which is exactly what happened.

  While we roared off up north, another of Kenny's tasks was to get hold of the Province Mayor (or his deputy) to try and sort out the problem of all the refugees. It was suggested they be moved to an area on the other side of the town where there were some old railway sidings. This would keep them out of the way for the time being, and would also keep the tracks clear of people for the free movement of our vehicles should fighting start.

  It was about 06.00hrs when I got into position with ten men. I had established a position high up on a rocky ridge. The lie of the land allowed me to see well into the distance to assess where the threat might come from. The land some ten ks ahead was bordered on both sides by mountains, giving what looked like a U-shaped valley, about four ks across. The valley floor was covered in small bushes, any trees having long been cut down for firewood. Along with these bushes, huge boulders made up the ground to my front. Down to my left, about 200 metres away, Jimmy had his men guarding the road and three vehicles — we were in both visual and radio contact. To his left was Josh, who had set up on another track, while to his left Brad, some 400 metres away, had set up high on a hillside.

  Anything moving to our front would be spotted by any one of the OPs. We were initially concerned that Renamo might cross grain — i.e. move tactically over topographical features rather than use tracks, roads or obvious routes — over one of the ridge lines, miss us out and attack the town from the flank, but this was reckoned not to be an option Renamo would use, since it would have been hard going for them and not their usual style. But anyway, not wanting to take the easy route out, and to be doubly sure, Brad ordered two OPs up on either ridge line to view over the top.

  These were to be our two most exposed positions, so we put our most trusted men out on them and told them to keep low and out of sight. Being compromised was not the order of the day. All we were trying to establish was how many Renamo were heading in our direction — if any; we were not to engage them, just observe. A battle plan would then be made for any subsequent action. If we were switched on, then we would always have the upper hand. We would have the element of surprise, and with that we could dictate the exact game plan — for at least the first 30 minutes or so, depending on the strength of the enemy!

  As foreigners, our brief from London was not to get involved in any operations, certainly not in any head-to-head with the enemy. But what option did we have? How could we be expected to train a fighting force in a country with a war raging all around, and when the time came to protect ourselves and our fellow soldiers, just turn and run on to the earliest available aircraft? We all had been put into an impossible situation. London really had no idea what it was like to be on the ground. We were all soldiers, and there was no way we could sit back and not lead the men we were expected to train into battle, should the occasion arise. It was unthinkable. Apart from the huge loss of face on our part, the British Army's name would be shit in this part of the world from that day on.

  For two days and nights we stagged on, waiting for some kind of movement from the north. Nothing happened. It wa
s decided that we should pull off but still keep a state of alert and have regular roving mobile patrols out on the ground. In effect, this took our training programme even further into rat shit. In essence, the soldiers would now have to be ready to go operational at any time; nonetheless, we proceeded as best we could with the training. We kept out of the day-to-day operational command of the security patrols and concentrated on teaching those who were not on duty the skills of Vehicle Anti-Ambush Drills, for when they were out on the convoys.

  As the days passed the threat of a Renamo attack faded, so the villagers eventually made their way back to their villages. Then the local militia came out from hiding, giving their usual story of how they chased the Renamo out of the area. They were full of shit, and everyone knew it; they had high-tailed it southwards at the first sign of trouble. However, to appease the militia, one of the local chiefs in his wisdom decided to honour their bravery. There was to be a parade just outside the town where locals gathered to see these 'heroes' honoured for their part in repelling Renamo. The whole thing was farcical, but I was to experience more of this 'special' kind of bravery later on.

  I had been in the country for six weeks now. Once the excitement of the so-called mass attack by Renamo had died down, things got back to normal, if you could call it that. There was always something to talk about at the end of each day. On one occasion a couple of our soldiers were caught stealing from one of the town's warehouses where we stored uniforms and kit. I think all they'd taken was a couple of pairs of army boots each. For that, the punishment was short and swift, as I discovered, passing their camp as it was dished out.

  The two soldiers were strung up, upside down, on what could only be described as a rack from the dungeons of Dracula. They were screaming in pain — for the rest of the camp to take as a warning — as the bare soles of their feet were thrashed down to the bone with canes. This went on for ten minutes. Then they were left strapped upside down for the rest of the day as a spectacle for the rest of the camp to take note of: 'This is what will happen to you if you fuck up.' To me, the punishment seemed extreme, but then, this was a desperate country going through desperate times. Apparently this was an old, traditional method of punishment, rarely used till recently revived. I never saw those two soldiers again.

  The Malawi flight came in pretty regularly. If I was about, I used to go down and help with the unloading, partly in anticipation of getting hold of the mail sack and partly to have a chat with Henry and Sam. They were always ready to crack a joke or two. One time when they were taxi-ing up I could see Sam unstrapping himself and making his way, I guessed, to open the aircraft's forward door. I could see Henry through the cockpit, beckoning me in a frenzied way to go and see what Sam had to say, even before the plane had stopped. Kenny and I ran up to Sam. Through the noise of the engines and the shit still being thrown up by the props. Sam was shouting.

  'Hey, Steve, Kenny, Steve, Kenny, we've just flown over a bunch of Renamo. I think we've been hit.'

  He jumped out frantically, looking along the fuselage for any signs of this.

  'What the fuck! How many and how far?' Kenny shouted back.

  'Many Mr Kenny, many! More than what I've ever seen before — and they're heading this way, for sure.'

  This sent me and Kenny into big-time switched-on mode and we started to look for a driver to send back and inform Brad and company. The aircraft's engines switched off and Henry appeared, also in a flap. A large shot of the old adrenalin and loose-bowel syndrome surged through my body. I felt scared but calm, both at the same time.

  'Henry, what the fuck did you see? What did you see? Sam reckoned there were hundreds of 'em. How many?' I was inquisitive, to say the least.

  Sam had now joined Henry and, without saying anything they walked off towards a shaded part of the runway, laughing like a pair of hyenas and slapping each other's palms.

  'Hey, Mr Steve, we really had you that time, got your white arse going, shit!' Henry shouted.

  'What was all that about? Stupid pair of bastards,' Kenny muttered as he saw me burst out laughing.

  This was a typical everyday wind-up that these pilots played on us all and each other; but I couldn't help recalling that old children's story about the boy who cried wolf. How would these guys react if the curtain really went up?

  Sometimes the aircraft would bring in a sack of fruit, oranges, apples, bananas and the like, that Henry and Sam had personally bought for the team from Zomba market. Other times, a special delivery of their locally brewed whiskey, piss yellow in colour, smelling and tasting like shite. It would knock you out for the night after just one gentlemen's measure. In fact, it was generally put by the medical kit, but Jimmy loved it, so we let him drink it.

  On one particular occasion there had been a lot of Malawi troop movement in and around Cuamba. Their job in Mozambique — they were here officially — was to sort out the train and the tracks, getting everything operational for when the tea started to arrive, which was not far off now that training was coming to an end. Their other task was to mount Clearing Patrols up and down the section of the railway which led over the border into Malawi.

  I waved goodbye to Henry and Sam, then the aircraft taxied out on to the runway for take-off. It was full of Malawi soldiers returning home for one reason or another, so most of our kit that should have gone on this flight did not make it. Only the most important stuff was put on — the empty returnable beer bottles; without them we wouldn't have got our beer resup. One for one was the policy. The return of empty bottles in Malawi was a growing black market trade and they had a perceived value. Indeed, people made a living out of returnables.

  Then, instead of the aircraft flying off, I heard Henry circling the airstrip, preparing to land again. Five minutes later the aircraft taxied back to where we were still standing. Maybe they'd forgotten something. Anyway, the props were still turning, and I could see that Sam was telling one of the Malawi soldiers to do something. He was pointing to the back and then to the nose of the aircraft. With that, the soldier, plus one other, got out and started to off-load four empty crates of beer bottles. My initial reaction was that they were overloaded and that Henry wanted to discharge some weight. When all four crates were on the ground, another soldier crossed the runway and opened up the nosecone of the aircraft so as to store the excess beer crates. Without thinking, one of the original pair of soldiers grabbed a crate and went forward. Instead of moving back and around the wing (thus avoiding the port propeller) for some reason he walked straight into the son-of-a-bitch.

  Result, his head was cleanly severed from his body, along with half his left shoulder. The wind of the props, which, of course, were still turning, blew the head down the taxi-ing area towards us. It happened so quickly that most of us could not believe what we had just witnessed. It was pretty gory stuff, but the strange thing was the attitude of the dead man's colleagues. They didn't get at all worked up about it, being more concerned about how long they would have to wait until another aircraft came and picked them up. Henry was equally unaffected. He was more worried about the state of his aircraft and when was he going to get a replacement propeller. He said that if we could get the bent prop off he would fly the plane back, but I wasn't sure about that.

  Another incident involving the Malawians, which was a butt of jokes amongst us, was the story about an aircraft technician back at Zomba. He was checking the state of one of the newly donated German aircraft. Whistling could be heard coming from the hangar, so he was in good spirits, when all of a sudden it erupted into a ball of flames. The poor man was obviously a goner, since he had gone into the hangar to check the fuel state of the aircraft — with a lighted cigarette in his mouth. I could see the funny side of that to a point, but Henry and Sam considered it one of their best stories, and told it all the time. Of course, it got better with every telling!

  I must have seemed a pretty sad bastard to the rest of the team when it came to receiving letters, because although I was quite a frequen
t writer, I never seemed to get many. In fact, all the guys on the team were married, which was a bit out of the norm. However, my romance with Lynn was well and truly over. She was seeing someone else and that was that. Sometimes I got angry about it, but there was jack shit I could do about it over here and I wasn't going to ask Brad if I could fly out to Malawi to call her, just to vent my anger in a stream of one-liners which would make me feel better. What's more, I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of hearing me let rip. I'd learnt over a period of time that she was quite cutting and rude enough about me to her friends, even when in my company. Christ knows what she said about me when I wasn't around. Was I really such a jerk to warrant all this emotional upset, or was she just not the woman for me? I put it down to the latter.

  I'd written letters to her a couple of times, but nothing too lovey-dovey. It was a release for me, more than anything. At that stage in our relationship, I don't suppose she even opened them. Thinking that hurt me a bit. I was convinced that our relationship was well and truly over, but no man likes female rejection, and I guess I was no different. When you're thousands of miles away in Shitsville, with no access to a phone, it's very hard not to think about relationships: past, present, and, in my case, future.

  I also wrote to my brothers but it was a standing joke that I didn't expect them to reply. There was nothing in it, but a few times when they had replied I'd never ever got their letters, because I'd always moved off somewhere else before I received them. So their letters always seemed to be chasing me and would invariably reach me when I had been back home a couple of weeks, by which time the contents would be old hat.

  We were three weeks away from the official passing-out parade when Brad asked me to go to Malawi to organise the pick-up of the red berets and a couple of other resup items. The trip meant spending a night, Saturday night, in Blantyre, so I jumped at the chance. An aircraft was due in that day so I made ready my overnight kit and disco shoes, and within four hours I landed back in Malawi. Obviously, there was no passport control to go through, and I was soon speeding off to meet John Ball at his office.