No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS

by Devereux, Steve

  This was a throwback to my Regiment days. Doing the job required in the harsh environment of Mozambique was hardly different from life in the SAS. The sobering contrast was that it was a lot more dangerous, because we couldn't call upon the rapid support at hand in a Regiment operation. If we got into any situation requiring an immediate extraction, such as Casevac, reinforcements or calling a chopper in, we would be in deep shit, because there were no such luxuries here. So it was even more important that all of us understood how each of us worked, and what made each of us tick. In any case, having a few beers at the end of play each day was always a good thing.

  After all the intros I went with Kenny to draw my stores, since I'd travelled light, and hadn't brought as much as I would have liked. Fortunately Kenny's stores had everything. I signed for what I took: three sets of British lightweight combats; a doss bag; mozzy net; and an assortment of British webbing, pattern 58 — basically everything I needed for the job. Next I went to the armoury, a converted 20-foot trailer, and drew out my weapons. I had the option of two rifles: surprisingly, a new SA80 or a Czech-built 7.62mm AKM, the folding-stock version of the famous AK47 rifle (designed in 1947 by a Russian called Mikhail Timofeievich Kalashnikov). I chose the AKM plus ten magazines, a Makarov pistol and an old Luger as back up, plus four grenades. The SA80 I left in the same place I left it when I was in the Regiment, still wrapped up in its oiled bag.

  I preferred the tried and tested system of the Kalashnikov — after all, there have been over 55 million manufactured and at that time I knew the rifle better than the SA80. The SA80 was an unreliable, shite-looking shoddily made piece of kit. I'm not into looking good or anything like that, I just wanted to have a rifle that would perform to its maximum without stoppages or bits falling off when I fired it.

  I was then shown to my half of one of the three 20-foot containers, the other half of which was occupied by Brad. Within an hour, I had sorted all my kit out, had a shower and joined the guys in the bar. Earlier, Brad had given me a copy of the task's SOPs and other bits and pieces, including some intelligence reports of recent local Renamo activities to read, so I retired early and went to bed reading it all by candlelight. The compound generator had broken down soon after I had arrived, so there were no lights and no air conditioning that night. This is what I read:

  I NTRODUCTION

  Brad's notes, all to read, in no particular order

  Home for the next six months is to be half of a 20-foot transport container. We are situated one mile outside the old Portuguese town of Cuamba and about 100 miles east from the Malawi/Mozambique border. We have no rank as such, so we have no powers or authority over our 'hosts'. We are here purely as a training team. From the highest authority in London, no one — and I mean no one — is allowed to go on or carry out operations with this Special Forces unit once it has been trained and becomes operational .

  The locals are very friendly and are happy that we are here. The buildings in Cuamba look like they have not had a brick relaid since the Portuguese left in 1975. The inhabitants who are lucky enough to live in the town, live there in relative safety, albeit in less than ideal conditions. The rest of the locals, plus a few thousand refugees, live dotted around in a five-square-mile area of the town, in mud huts. Those who are on the outer edge of the makeshift shanty town are at the most risk. They are easy prey for Renamo, who, at night, sometimes come into the outlying villages to attack, rape the women and capture the men and march them off back into the hills to use them as human camels, to transport their war machine to their next target. Those who resist are, in general, systematically hanged, drawn and quartered, Mozambique style: basically, hacked to death with machetes where they stand, their heads mounted on wooden stakes for the rest of the villagers to see .

  We are located just outside the town, to the south, in an area I have named 'The Compound' just by the town's airstrip. It is a small, fenced-off camp about 20 metres by 40 metres. Everything we own or use — weapons, ammunition, food, and training aids and personal kit — is to be secured inside the compound. This is to be constantly guarded by one of the training team. It is Kenny's main responsibility when the training team is out on the ground. We don't own the Land Rovers or for that matter any of the vehicles, but it is recognised that they are for our use for the duration of this contract .

  Everything from water through to petrol is at a premium. We are quite likely to be invaded at night by a few locals in search of anything they think might be of use to them. This is to be expected and we have to guard against it. I have arranged with Major Consista, the local Frelimo camp commander, for his men to carry out roving night stags (guard duty) .

  Everyone here including the army has limited food and water supplies. Most of the locals living out in the huts are seriously undernourished and most of them have nothing to look forward to, apart from an early death. If we catch them trying to steal, make light of it and let them go with a swift kick up the arse. That's all — nothing stronger. I cannot stress this enough, we have no command over the locals or the soldiers. All local problems; discipline (including the troop's discipline) and our proposed daily training programmes, must go through Major Consista or, if he is not about, then one of his officers .

  On an operation like this, hearts and minds — it goes without saying — are paramount to the smooth running of the contract and also to our livelihoods. The last thing I want to be involved in is an uprising by the locals, or worse, the troops, because one of us has battered the shit out of a thief just because he had broken into the compound and stolen a tin of beans .

  The camp has a limited water and electricity supply. Both are supplied via a petrol generator. The water comes from a recently sunk and tested borehole situated behind the ops room building inside the compound. When it breaks down (which it has, many times since I installed it three weeks ago) we really have to watch our personal and compound hygiene routine until it gets repaired. Sometimes this can take two or three days .

  The two water tanks situated behind my basha should be kept full at all times, and are to be checked by any one of us who is passing them at the time to see that they are just that .

  Hygiene is a big problem. The insects, the open sewers outside this compound, and basic lack of sanitation in Cuamba in general might land any one of us in the local hospital, a notion none of us even wants to contemplate. Although it is run by a couple of French Aid doctors from MSF, they still have very limited equipment and drugs to work with .

  The only link we have with the outside world (apart from the radio) is the sometimes twice-weekly flight by the Malawi Airforce. It is hoped that we will get at least one flight a week of fresh rations and mail .

  If the shit hits the fan, and we are attacked by the Renamo, we have no real means of escape apart from running in the opposite direction. SOPs in the event of an attack — to take them on head to head if the force is not too large — can be discussed when all team members arrive from UK. If it looks likely that it will be a big attack, then we might be lucky and get an early warning by the amount of refugees fleeing past the compound gates. In this case I have arranged with an old Russian pilot, Uri, based in the city of Nampula to our east, that I will call him up on the radio and get him to fly in with his Antanov cargo plane and get us out .

  We are, in effect, very much on our own in a county which has absolutely nothing apart from millions and millions of rounds of ammunition and enough rifles to fire them through .

  Mozambique is basically a weapons graveyard. The assortment of arms and ammunition is unbelievable. It equates to children back in the UK and McDonald's burgers — every kid has got to have one. I reckon if I looked hard enough, I would eventually find a nice, original 18th-century blunderbuss left over from the colonial days .

  Our mission is to train two groups of 100 soldiers in SF (Special Forces) tactics in two three-month periods to an adequate standard so they can safely and professionally protect the tea convoys to and from the town of Gu
rué 100 miles to our north .

  The tea is to be brought back to Cuamba and then loaded onto trains which will then take the tea across the border into Malawi, where it will be sold at Tea Auctions to create revenue for the Mozambique Government. This entire operation seems to me to be a little farfetched because the Mozambique Government is going to have to shift an awful lot of tea to sort out the effect that this war is having on its people. (Finally, just so we all know the score about Mozambique, this war was once described by the American State Department as 'one of the most brutal holocausts against ordinary human beings since World War II'.)

  Vehicles are also at a premium. We are the only people in the whole of this part of the country to have them. Six Land Rovers, ten beat-up old Mercedes flat-bed lorries for the transportation of tea, and an old water bowser are at our disposal. We also have a selection of old Russian military APCs to act in support when the convoys are to start .

  I will be issuing formal Standing Orders. However, we are not in the Army now but there are a few salient problems that need to be urgently addressed. I will endeavour to sort out a camp routine and to get everyone's agreement as to how that should best be done .

  In the short term, the main point is for all of us to get to know and get on with each other and enjoy working together as a team .

  Brad

  Team ic

  3

  DAILY ROUTINE

  I didn't sleep much during that first night. The mosquito net I'd hastily erected had somehow been pulled down, probably when I was tossing and turning, so the mozzies had had a great time biting shit out of my neck and arms and I was bitten to fuck. It also didn't help that the air conditioning had packed up during the night and, stupidly, I'd opted to sleep with the door to my container locked. In any case, the bastards still managed to find their way in through the wire mesh window.

  That night my AKM was by my side, since after reading Brad's notes I had visions of Renamo entering our compound and attacking us all whilst we slept. This was a bit over the top; we would have been alerted to any movement by Renamo through the outlying villages, which acted like an early warning system. Just as in NI, where the dogs picked up the scent of the many security forces in their area, the local stray dogs which roamed outside the compound would do the same.

  First light was around 05.00hrs. The sun was not yet up but, as in Malawi, the humidity certainly was. My room was as stuffy as a sauna. I arose from bed, a single cast-iron-framed affair with a mattress as rigid as a soggy Kit Kat, soaking in sweat and completely knackered. I opened the locked door to let fresh air in. There was no breeze blowing outside so the air around me was motionless. I stood there naked, looking out across the compound, still sweating like a bastard.

  Brad and Kenny had worked well during their first three weeks sorting out the compound. Apart from setting up the electricity supply, sinking a fresh-water well and digging the bogs, they had rigged up a really good set of 'field' showers utilising three old 50-gallon barrels set on a wooden tower construction, constantly fed by water via a pipe from the well. The sun would heat the water to a half-decent temperature, so if you got there first you were guaranteed a warm shower. However, when the water in the barrels had been used once, you were guaranteed a heart-stopping one, because the water pumped from the well was icy cold. A later shower was always to be avoided, unless you were a masochist.

  Breakfast was whatever you wanted. We had bacon, eggs, beans, etc., all the usual kit one would expect to find back home. Generally, though, we settled for just a cup of coffee or tea and a plate of watermelon. It was Kenny's responsibility to keep us all fed well and he did surprisingly well.

  Every day we would be up between 05.30 and 06.00, then usually off for a run around the airfield perimeter for four to seven miles. There were two decent well-defined runs which led through part of the village closest to the airfield. The locals must have thought us mad — in contrast, they spent all their time walking around, looking for food and firewood. Their routine was designed around basic survival, and they would think nothing of walking 15 ks for wood or food, and as the population grew by the week, these items became harder to find. Apart from wild tomatoes and watermelon, there was not much growing locally. Supplies would occasionally come in by train from Malawi, but only those who had money were able to buy them.

  I've always found running good for calming the mind. Once I've made the effort to start, and get over the first few minutes, I've found I quickly settle in to a steady pace. The weather was cool enough that early in the morning not to be uncomfortable, and though the humidity used to make me sweat as soon as I started, I always believed it was doing me good. Of course, I had to drink a gallon of water every time I got back, just to stop myself from dehydrating. Nonetheless, after this I felt on top of the world and ready to face the day.

  Because it was still early days in the contract, not all the soldiers to make up this new Special Forces unit had arrived. They were coming from all over the country, mostly by air, and the transport being what it was, I was surprised that any got here at all. It was to be at least another ten days before the full complement of well over 100 soldiers was assembled. This delay gave us a chance to formulate training programmes and designate who was going to teach what, and with whom.

  In typical SAS style we threw on the table what each of us would like to teach and do, and what we were best at, and we assessed who had the most up-to-date training in certain skills. Then Brad decided who would do what. This procedure worked most of the time in the Regiment. It was a case of trying to find round pegs for round holes, talking about it all together, and then one man coming to a decision that was agreeable to the majority.

  I was to pair up with Jimmy to write the Weapon Training Policy for all of us to teach, and because I had the most current knowledge of demolitions, I was ic of teaching the art of making bombs and booby traps. I was pleased. Demolitions was a subject I really enjoyed.

  Over the next few days we really got to grips with the camp. Jimmy planted an assortment of salad vegetable seeds which we had brought over from the UK: lettuce, tomato, radish, etc. He dug the vegetable patch next to the stand pipe by the well, so the seeds were constantly watered through a series of small interlinked trenches. It looked the business, very professionally planned. He reckoned that in a couple of months that we would all be eating fresh produce. Jimmy's vegetable patch was a constant butt of jokes, but as the days went on and the seedlings started to show everyone used to visit it on a day-to-day basis, just to make sure the water supply was OK and that none of the locals had jumped over the fence at night and vandalised it.

  The only thing missing from Jimmy's attire when he was tending his patch was a flat cap and a pipe. After work when the rest of us did a bit of weight training, Jimmy would be next to us, viewing the day's growth of his 'fresh'. In between reps on the weights, one of us might stroll over and chew the fat with him.

  'Hey Jim, how're the toms doing today?'

  'Fuckin' brill. Have you seen this shoot? It wasn't here yesterday. Fuck, things grow fast over here!'

  Jimmy would be pointing to the new growth. This would have us all in bouts of laughter, but he never saw the funny side of it. Gardening, like soldiering, was a very serious business to Jimmy.

  The Frelimo officers, who only ever wore the Frelimo khaki battle dress and were distinguishable from their men only by the red badges of rank they wore on their epaulettes, used to join us at night for a few beers and were amazed and baffled that we were actually growing our own vegetables. According to the Mozambique macho attitude, only women did that sort of thing. Indeed, the women did all the work; fetching firewood, cooking, cleaning, you name it they did it. The men were generally lazy bastards and did absolutely nothing by way of contributing to the family, apart from making babies.

  'Where did you get the seeds from?' one of them asked. It was a pretty bone question but as Jimmy said, 'Well, some of these blokes have been at war since they were k
ids, and I guess they lack a bit upstairs.' In some ways Jimmy was right. About 90 per cent of the people were almost illiterate. All they knew about was the shit side of life: how to kill and be killed.

  Little did the officers know but a few months later, when the Malawi resup aircraft didn't come in for over two weeks, we, 'the Specialists', were the only people in this province to eat fresh rations — from Jimmy's vegetable patch.

  Sorting out the stores was another immediate job. There was loads of extra kit, and it all had to be unpacked, checked, counted, recorded and stored, before awaiting issue to the troops. The stuff included weapons, ammunition, dems kit, medical supplies, all sorts of brand-new equipment (mainly British Army stuff including our uniforms which were British Army light-weights).

  For all of us, this phase was just like being back in the Regiment. Had any outsider looked in, they could have been forgiven for thinking that the official British Army was operating in Mozambique. If the uniforms were not enough to convince them, then why were the majority of the Frelimo troops carrying new British Army SA80 rifles? This was a question I asked myself, but wasn't able to suss it out for myself until much later on.

  Then there was sorting out our camp security — who was to be allowed in and who wasn't. Without setting some kind of precedent, we could end up with every Tom, Dick and Harry coming over for a brew and a chat, or even worse, a beer. Beer, like the petrol and water, was at a premium, and very expensive, too, so the last thing we wanted was to share it.