What London didn't know was that if we didn't go along on the convoy with the Special Forces, then the convoy commanders would refuse to as well. During the evening, it began to look as if we were scared of going with them, and from their point of view, it had nothing to do with London. We were soldiers just like them. They didn't understand the political implications of us Brits mounting offensive operations there, let alone getting killed on one. Picture a tabloid headline in UK: 'Ex-SAS men working undercover in war-torn Mozambique. Two killed in Renamo ambush.' That would definitely cause questions to be asked in the House of Commons.
The long and short of it was that very early the following morning, the convoy of ten flatbed trucks, an old water bowser and an assortment of armoured vehicles headed north for Gurué, along with four of us Brits — Brad, Brian, Jimmy and myself — acting as 'advisers'. None of us wanted to be accused of cowardice!
After the 'last supper', all troops were ordered to help load the trucks with vital supplies for Gurué. For over a year Gurué had been cut off completely by road, and it was essential to the tea harvest that these supplies got through in order to feed the tea pickers and refinery workers.
There were irregular airlift missions flying in but these were very risky and, of course, becoming very expensive. The necessary supplies consisted of hundreds of sacks of grain and flour, and a real premium commodity, sugar. All had come via rail from Malawi some days earlier and had been stored in two huge warehouses in the town centre, under the control of the Mayor, and heavily guarded by his own militia.
When the trucks arrived outside our compound the following morning, I was amazed that they were still drivable. Eight were so overloaded that troops designated to ride with them had trouble finding spaces to sit. I didn't relish their job one little bit. They made easy pickings as far as any opportunist sniper was concerned.
The camera crew was there to film and wish us good luck. They really wanted to come with us but had more sense. It was hoped that they would still be 'in country' when — or if — we returned in a couple of weeks time.
For our part, we had been put in an untenable position. If we hadn't gone with them, all our 'street cred' gained during the past months would have been destroyed and more to the point, our personal security might have been jeopardised as well. Actually, if the truth be known, all of us were relishing the opportunity to go on operations and possibly get a crack at Renamo.
The only firepower, other than the rifles and RPG 7 shoulder-fired rocket launchers we carried, was: three AAs (Russian anti-aircraft guns) strapped down on the back of three Land Rovers, plus two lightly armoured BTR 60s, one at the front of the convoy and one at the rear, as protection.
The AAs were a real problem for the crews manning them. Over the previous weeks, we'd tried to secure these guns in the back of the Land Rovers, so they would stay stable and on target when fired for at least 100 rounds, but they would not. The recoil of the gun would shake the Land Rover so fiercely that the driver had trouble controlling the vehicle even when stationary. Firing on the move was a further problem because the gun's recoil would vibrate loose the makeshift wooden wedges jammed around the gun's tripod to lock the legs in position in a fruitless attempt to stop this happening. It became impossible to aim the gun with any degree of accuracy. In short, mounting this weapon on the back of the Land Rovers was a total waste of time.
The only advantage in bringing them along was as a show of firepower to the enemy. They were fearsome-looking pieces of kit. Renamo didn't know that they were incapable of putting down suppressive fire, nor could they know that they would jam up after every ten-round burst. Mounted on a Land Rover they looked the business and that alone would probably be sufficient deterrent for any Renamo unit thinking of mounting an attack. In addition, because the guns were relatively light and could be carried by three men, they might come to have a use in Gurué. There they could be taken off the Land Rovers and sighted on the ground, thus becoming very effective weapons indeed.
The convoy route was to take us along 100 miles of dirt track which had not been driven on for over a year. There was every reason to anticipate that Renamo had laid mines somewhere along it. It certainly didn't take the brains of a genius to work out that Renamo would have placed obstacles to slow us down, and probably trap us in an ambush. Because of the terrain and the natural obstacles along the way, we allowed between eight and ten hours to get to Gurué, a further three or four days to load up the tea, and then 12 to 14 hours for the return journey.
It all had the makings of a classic 'To-Hell-and-Back' journey. Our only hope was that Renamo had limited intelligence of our movements and didn't know on what day we would be travelling. Our own intelligence was non-existent. We had gained nothing from the latest reports sent down from Maputo; all we knew was that Renamo had been, and still were, operating about 20 miles to our north.
Their strength, weapons carried or methods of operating the units roaming our part of the country were very much unknown. We were very much aware that they were a pretty ruthless lot to their own people, and what they might do to foreigners, especially whites, was not a pleasant prospect. I could well imagine some of it! The best thing to do was not get caught.
The first ten miles were relatively easy going. This part of the route was well known to us all — we had driven over it many times — but as soon as we approached the mountains, the track started to turn and weave its way up, down and through old dried-up river beds. The drivers of the trucks had to drive almost blind because of the dust being kicked up by vehicles in front. Every 15 or so minutes we had to stop, dismount, and put out clearing patrols to check out the track ahead. At times there were rocks blocking our path, a possible 'come on' but more likely put there by kids, or a burnt-out tank or APC that had either been attacked a year earlier or just abandoned along the way.
The three middle trucks carried non-paying passengers who had hitched a lift to see family and friends. They rode high on top of the essential supplies. About 100 in all hung precariously on to the tarpaulin sheets which covered the trucks. As their vehicle braked, sped up, bounced and swerved as a matter of course, they sang constantly. A lot of vividly dressed locals singing in harmony was not the most tactical of approaches to adopt on this first convoy. I think it was their way of releasing the stress of knowing that they were likely to be ambushed. Maybe they assumed that we were the 'Force Invincible'.
The convoy continued at its almost unbearably slow pace. I had to be totally switched on, my eyes scanning every bit of open space that lay in front of us, anticipating the worst. It was like being back on the streets of NI, where a moment's relaxation could mean getting blown away by some sniper, or not concentrating where you've been stepping could lead to treading on a homemade AP that had been sited at an easy crossing place in an innocent-looking hedgerow.
I was incredibly hyped up, and my concentration was intense. This situation was bringing my military and personal qualities together for the ultimate test. It was about life and the need to survive. It was also about thinking, Why the fuck am I here? — a perception common to many soldiers over the years. Being in situations like this always reminded me of the saying, 'You're never more alive than when you're closest to death.' That's very true. All one's primal instincts, never really used in modern life, seem to come back and are greatly enhanced when one knows that Mr Death may rear his ugly head at any moment.
So far, things had been going pretty well, despite the fact that dust was constantly blowing into the Land Rover. Jimmy, now driving, had the worst job. Sometimes the dust was so thick that he had to back off or slow right down to see where he was going, which had a domino effect on the rest of the convoy. It continually stopped, started, and shunted its way forward. This added strain was not helped by the fact that our Land Rover was missing parts of its side windows so we could not stop the dust entering and swirling around us. And on top of that , the heat and humidity were constant discomforts.
We ha
d passed a few small hamlets. On one occasion we stopped at a reduced village, as the people who elected to stay put and not to go off to the safety of the bigger towns were a constant target for Renamo. The population was less than one hundred, mainly old men and women. Renamo would come in, take what little livestock there was (sometimes only a few chickens), fill up with fresh rations, water, tomatoes, etc., and leave. It wasn't in their interests to wipe this village off the map, since the old people were no threat to them. Rarely had Frelimo visited this village in the past and we were the first to do so for such a long time.
We didn't stay too long — only long enough for those who so desired to top up with watermelons and water; and that was that. I wondered if this village would be here on our return journey, or would Renamo now wipe it off the face of the Earth because the villagers had 'collaborated' with us, the enemy? I seriously worried that our presence might be construed by the guerrillas as collaboration on the part of the inhabitants. I hoped not, since there was no way of avoiding the villages; no tracks skirted around them. We didn't really need to stop there, so why we did, I don't really know. I guess it was just common courtesy to say hello, yet in doing so we possibly signed the locals' death warrants. Still, this was a view I kept to myself. Certainly the troops welcomed these short stops.
Every time we came across a village or small hamlet, our soldiers would join in conversation with the elders, who would jump up on the trucks or run alongside them. In fact, we rarely stopped completely. The snatched conversations always centred around the possible whereabouts of Renamo. The standard reply was that none had been seen in the area for weeks. This was to be expected, there was no way these people wanted to take sides; in fact, most of them didn't know who was who. Ninety per cent of the population didn't even understand what the war was all about. All they saw were men with guns, some in uniform, others not.
At about the half-way point of the journey we had our first major stop, at a small town called Lioma, really nothing more than 40 or so buildings either side of the track. The inhabitants, 2,000 or so, turned out to greet us.
When I say they turned out to greet us, they weren't waving banners and cheering or anything like that. Most of them appeared just to observe us the Brits more than anything else. I felt unsettled. There were no smiles on their faces and most of them appeared very stand-offish as they trotted alongside our vehicles.
'Hey, have you seen any Renamo around here?' I tried to catch the eye of a bare-footed young lad of about 14 or 15, in the standard well-worn T shirt and jeans. He knew I was talking to him, but didn't acknowledge me.
'Hey you, you speak English, English? You want something? Jimmy, stop the wagon, will yer?'
The boy came up to the window and I held out four chewy fruit-pastille-type sweets I had got from a Malawi soldier. They were individually wrapped in white rice paper with twisted ends but tasted crap.
'For you. Speak English. Any Renamo?'
The lad looked puzzled at what I was saying.
'Renamo. Have you seen any Renamo around here recently?'
Jimmy was calling out to another lad with the same question, again to no response. Suddenly my lad took the sweets and ran off, followed by a crowd of children. I was left none the wiser, but very concerned. I still had this butterfly feeling in my stomach about being ambushed.
The troops didn't seem overtly worried, there was much bartering going on between them and the townspeople over the purchase of bits and pieces, mainly vegetables in exchange for personal items of issued kit, such as field dressings or water bottles. In fact, I didn't see any money changing hands. The troops had very little as individuals, and furthermore, money was no real use to these people. What could they spend it on, and who would take it in exchange? The team made a point of not getting involved — someone had to stay alert whilst the troops struck their deals for whatever. We always assumed possible danger and this form of apparently spontaneous activity could well have been a set-up.
We had been gradually climbing since leaving Cuamba, and now the area for miles around was flat and very fertile. Back in the 1970s Lioma had been (still was, to some extent) an agricultural town. As part of a much bigger aid programme, Brazil had at that time donated to Mozambique millions of dollars worth of all sorts of farming machinery and heavy plant, such as tractors, diggers, combine harvesters and baling machines, which all ended up there in Lioma. At the same time this machinery was delivered the war kicked off, so all this kit sat unused and rusting.
I was looking across at the fields which contained this equipment. The sight would have made even the hardest Young Farmer break down and cry: literally row upon row of tractors and combine harvesters, just lined up in a field, baking in the midday sun as they had done for 15 years or so.
Not one digger or tractor had been used — they had all just been driven into the fields and left. The original intention had been to give the locals training on how to use and maintain them, but as the war took precedence, the powers that be in Maputo took over the country's ration of diesel and petrol, so by the time Lioma received its share there was very little to put into the tractors' tanks. Through these bizarre circumstances, Lioma had become the world's largest graveyard for agricultural machinery. From what I could see, very few of these vehicles had been cannibalised; most looked as if they could be put to work with very little effort. I remember thinking that there must have been a strange kind of discipline instilled into the folks of this town, not to want to touch all this machinery.
Once the convoy had been refreshed and resupplied, we got it back on the road again. The rest of the route seemed pretty much easy going as far as the terrain was concerned. Lioma local militia told us that there was a small band of about 20 Renamo operating between here and Gurué, but they had not been seen for a week or more. However, their information was not to be taken at face value, so I was still very much on my guard. And that was just as well, because as we got about ten miles out of Lioma, the convoy came under attack …
The story now continues with the events described in Chapter 1.
5
COVERING FIRE
A s the laughter died down, Jimmy started to pull up his fatigues, and things were deadly serious once more. This was no time to look back on all that had happened since I first got to Mozambique — I had to live in the here and now. Everyone had to switch back on. It was a no-duff situation for sure.
After Jimmy's moon, the men settled down a bit, as did our nerves. They seemed to have enjoyed themselves; for most of them, it was the first taste of real action. They were pretty pleased, and rightly. They had performed well on their first contact, which had shown Renamo in no uncertain terms that these SF soldiers were not going to take any shit, and if attacked would retaliate with a massive display of firepower.
On approach to our final destination, the terrain had been slowly changing after the ambush. The track had become more hilly and the going a lot harder on the trucks. The landscape all around was turning more green. It was a sign that we were nearing civilisation. Suddenly the lead BTR stopped. I estimated that we were about three miles outside of Gurué. Both Jimmy and I got out of the Land Rover and walked up to the BTR. The rest of the troops stayed put and acted like they were playing the game for real. Only the hitchhikers got off their vehicles and mingled round, in anticipation of doing another runner into the bush. Surprisingly they had been pretty quiet since the ambush. I had not heard of any reports of casualties amongst them.
'What the fuck's up now?' Jimmy sounded irritated about stopping on what was pretty much the sort of open ground we had travelled across so far.
'Shit knows, but one thing's for sure. I ain't hanging around here too long. We're standing out like a big bag of red things.'
The radio crackled into life. It was Brad wanting to know what was the hold up. Jimmy put him straight and said he didn't know, but was 'sure as shit' going to find out.
As the dust settled I could see that the track ran straig
ht ahead for about a mile, dipping about half way, then it rose up again and disappeared over the horizon. In the distance I could make out what had to be Gurué. I could see no buildings, but there seemed to be vast stretches of cultivation, which I took to be the tea plantations.
The troops and locals seemed to know where they were and were getting really excited. It was late afternoon, we had made good time. The sun was still up but a light welcoming wind blew across us. For the first time I could remember, I felt quite cold. Whether it was because it was cooler up there, or whether my body had just released all the tension it had built up over the past 12 hours or so, I couldn't decide.
'What's up? Why have we stopped? Who gave the order?' Jimmy shouted to the commander of the BTR.
'See the dip over there, Mr Jimmy?' The commander was pointing down along the track. His voice sounded stressed.
'Yeah. What about it? Gurué's just over the ridge, aye?'
'Yes, Mr Jimmy, I know, but this area ahead of us is where Renamo lay mines. Look, you can see the holes.'
He was right. There were a few holes caused by previously exploded mines and what looked like the remains of an old car. Renamo would normally lay more live mines in the old holes, since this would save them digging time — they could do the job in a couple of minutes and be gone. I got on the radio and told Brad and Josh of the possible mine clearance task ahead. They retorted that they were both coming up to see.
The area either side of the track looked relatively even, so the possibility of driving across country, thus avoiding this snag, was considered by Jimmy and myself. Then the other two turned up and joined in the debate.
Those troops designated as guards were off their vehicles and lying down, watching our flanks and rear, whilst the four of us plus two of the officers continued to debate tactics. The engines were ordered to be switched off and the rest of the troops were ordered down from the vehicles, to 'take five'.
No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS Page 9