by Al Venter
Bad mistake, I warned, and so it was. Some of the Paras were dropped in water up to their shoulders and with them laden down with weapons, ammo and other kit, they were lucky that nobody drowned … it could very easily have happened.
As planned, the raid took place at dawn, shortly before 06h00 hours on 10 September. It was an incredibly efficient effort, recalls Nellis, with all the hostages quickly released and most of the serious fighting over within half an hour. ‘There was still a lot of mopping up to do and that’s when the choppers, us included, came into our element.’
The Hind’s role was largely secondary, but Neall Ellis and his team were given an area towards the south and south-east of the river, opposite the Gberi Bana complex where he would perform stopper group duties.
There was no shortage of targets either … those West Side Boys who survived the initial attack had scattered as soon as they were able to, many of them running right into our guns.
Strictly speaking, I suppose our role could have been equated to close air support because we would send off our rockets as and when needed, firing in volleys of four or eight at a time. It was the same with the Gatling. We only left the scene of the action to return to base to refuel and gun up again before heading back to Rokel Creek.
Questioned about numbers, Nellis reckons that about 40 rebels were probably killed by the British gunships and the main attack force in the initial onslaught. It would have been more but for the fact that one of the Lynxes had to pull out because of an engine problem. He estimates that by the time he returned to Cockerill in the afternoon, he had probably killed another 50 or 60.
British forces lost one man, Brad Tinnion from the SAS, who was hit by a round from an AK-47 although there were several others lightly wounded.
The war in Sierra Leone officially ended in January 2002 and, once it was over, there were few people in Freetown who did not acknowledge the sterling role played by Nellis and his little band of brothers in their helicopter gunship. Even today, more than a decade later, Neall Ellis is warmly welcomed in the homes of just about everybody in this great city, including those of people who probably didn’t even know him. Everybody is aware of what he did and what his role ultimately meant to the country. He is a white hero in a staunchly black African country.
This was also one of the reasons why, in a personal letter to the author dated 14th June, 2010, General Sir David Richards KCB CBE DSO ADC Gen, Chief of the General Staff in the United Kingdom (and soon to become Chief of the Defence Staff), acknowledged an informal greeting from the South African aviator from Afghanistan.
General Sir David wrote: ‘… I hugely appreciate Neall Ellis sending me his best wishes. He is a great man; I and everyone in Sierra Leone owe him much.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IRAQ—GOING NOWHERE
In September 2004, while I was still in Sierra Leone, Mauritz Le Roux approached me and said that he had set up a private security company in Iraq. It was called OSSI-Safenet and he was in partnership with John Walbrige, an American. He intimated that things were moving ahead at a steady pace and they already had contracts with large companies involved with reconstruction work in what the media was calling ‘a war-ravaged country’.
Basically, the job in Iraq was to get the contractors in and out of their work places each day and to provide on-site protection while they were there. It was pretty straightforward. However, as was the case with other companies doing this kind of work, such as Haliburton, KBR, and Triple Canopy, they were targeted from time to time and, more often than not, had to slug it out in close-quarter combat. Convoy ambushes were a favourite ploy of the dissidents, who included a good sprinkling of al-Qaeda.
To begin with, Mauritz suggested that I should travel with him to Saddam Hussein’s old fief. The idea was to look at some helicopters and engines he was contemplating buying. He thought he needed some kind of air capability to move his staff around Iraq and it sounded promising.
Getting into Baghdad from Dubai wasn’t all that easy at the time. Mauritz met me in Dubai and we spent a couple of days looking for scheduled flights to Iraq. We had no luck, as everything with wings heading to Baghdad was full. Finally, he suggested that we just go down to the airport and see if we could ‘hitch a ride’. I thought he was joking but, as usual, the man has no inhibitions and we started walking around Dubai’s airport apron, looking for an aircraft that might be heading east.
Finally, we approached an Il-76 captain, a Russian who said he was going to Baghdad. He wasn’t interested in taking any passengers, he said gruffly. Mauritz discreetly handed him $500 in crisp American bills and suddenly we had a deal.
After about two hours in the air our plane dropped into a steep spiral-descent as we headed into Baghdad. It was a bit like those long-ago days in Ondangua when Angola and the South-West African borders were hot, but I didn’t complain. Better a quick entry than the alternative; only a short while before a DHL freighter had taken a SAM missile up its tailpipe.
My first impressions of Iraq were mixed. For what had been a war zone only a short time before, the place was humming. There were huge numbers of military personnel about and, in spite of the apparent confusion, things seemed to work. The terminal itself was packed with private military contractors, mostly American, swaggering, gung-ho types. We arrived without visas, but baksheesh quickly took care of that. Mauritz’s people were waiting for us in the main terminal and the drive into the city was yet another kind of experience.
OSSI-Safenet had a policy of preferring to blend in with the locals. That meant that Mauritz rarely used new or upmarket vehicles, such as the Hummer or American-built Suburbans that most of the American PMCs preferred. Rather, the company stuck to older, more ordinary sedans such as battered Mercedes sedans or Japanese mini-buses. These vehicles sat quite low and I thought that the suspensions might have been shot. However, I soon realised that they were armour-plated and, obviously, the additional weight made a significant difference. As somebody said, ‘better slower and safer than sorry’.
Within the Mauritz organisation, I immediately recognized several former South African Special Forces and Army vets from my SADF and EO days. In fact, wherever you went there were South Africans involved in security in Iraq. At the peak, there were about 30,000 private security contractors in the country, of whom more than half were from South Africa. What was certainly comforting with OSSI-Safenet was that just about all its members of staff were professionals. There were hardly any who had not seen solid action while in uniform.
Before leaving the airport, I was issued with a ballistic jacket and an AK-47. A briefing on the kind of procedures we were expected to stick to followed, with the emphasis on drills to be observed should we be attacked. We were then told to hop into one of the cars and we left the airport in a convoy of three vehicles.
One aspect of the briefing was puzzling. We were told never to purposely peer into cars using the same highway, even if they pulled up right alongside us. Essentially, it was stressed, the company liked to mind its own business. I wasn’t sure that I agreed as I thought that if someone was intending to attack us, it would be better to keep a wary eye out for belligerents with weapons. How, otherwise, would we know if we were going to be at the receiving end of a ‘drive-by’ killing?
Although nothing happened on that journey, it was an exhilarating experience. I was thinking that while I had survived more hairy situations than I cared to recall at the controls of combat, and other, helicopters, I was now going to die because of some maniac driver hurtling down Route Irish. It really was scary. Just about everybody in Baghdad seemed to drive like a lunatic. Speeds of 120kph were slow and, moreover, basic road courtesy simply did not exist and it was every man for himself. However, our drivers had obviously driven the route often enough before and they knew the ropes. I found the coordination of the vehicles moving about the narrow streets impressive. There was constant radio chatter keeping the whole group in the picture about the situation ahead. Delay
s would be reported as soon as they happened to prevent one or more of the cars being cut off or hedged-in by trucks, which was invariably the prelude to an ambush.
It didn’t bother any of the guys that there was a constant sound of gunfire with a never-ending series of explosions, automatic fire, single fire, shotgun fire, and more. There was also the constant scream of fighter jets and choppers overhead: there were British Pumas, American Apaches, Chinooks and quite a few others. Anywhere else in the world, it would have made for a pretty impressive air show.
After a few routine stops, Mauritz headed to a hotel where he had a suite and where I would be staying. On that leg of the journey our security detachment was even more impressive. Each of the vehicles in our convoy had a shooter sitting alongside the driver with another in the back seat. We were told that if there was any serious trouble, we’d find heavier stuff like PKMs and RPGs in the trunks, and everybody was carrying a pistol.
An outstanding organiser and tactician, Mauritz had geared the routine so that we could immediately adapt to new circumstances. Thus if any of the vehicles were attacked, the men in the others would be able to react and give fire support. Essentially, it is the South African way that comes with experience and it worked very well.
As we approached the hotel, the street was cordoned off by massive three-metre-high cement blocks, acting as blast walls for suicide car bombers and positioned so that we had to weave in between them at a snail’s pace. At the entrance there was a longish contraption that had spikes on it. The guards were ready to haul it across the road and puncture tyres if they thought there were insurgents trying to force their way in. All the security personnel at the hotel were Iraqi but it turned out they were also working for Mauritz.
Once through the door, everybody suddenly relaxed and the banter was infectious. It was a marked change from when we were on the road, when nobody said a word unless they had to and the drivers were constantly checking their rear view mirrors for any vehicle getting too close. The only chatter then came from the radio.
I sat around the hotel for the next couple of days while Mauritz had meetings, and coordinated our visit to where the engines and spares were stored. It was then that I was able to compare his setup with that of some of the American PMCs working in Iraq.
By and large, Americans working security in Iraq, with some notable exceptions, of course, could hardly have been described as unobtrusive. The former Special Forces operatives, veterans from the various Seal Teams or even Delta Force, were a zealous bunch who liked to publicly display their prowess. They would wear their battle jackets, side arms, usually a bandana or two and dark glasses, and they used a variety of camouflage kit with aplomb. If they were fit and strong, and most of them were, they’d often wear the skimpiest T-shirts and strut about to show off their physiques, which went very much against the grain of the average British or Commonwealth operative who, in contrast, were always low key. Get talking to an American at the bar and he would invariably tell you his life story in the first 20 minutes, which could be embarrassing as he’d invariably boast about himself and his achievements. It was very much in contrast to the British attitude. You’d have difficulty getting somebody who had spent time in the SAS or SBS to answer even a few fundamental questions about his old regiment.
It was the same with Mauritz’s crowd, who eventually numbered several thousand including a preponderance of Iraqis. OSSI-Safenet operatives were encouraged to adopt local dress, which would sometimes include the traditional Arab headdress, the keffiyeh or shemagh, and to grow beards. Others in the group would don long robes, which were ideal for concealing side arms, and since most spent a lot of time in the sun, they all sported good tans, which made them look partly Arab anyway. Basically, this was an unobtrusive bunch of fighters and they never went looking for trouble. After the third or fourth ambush on one of the roads out of Baghdad to a construction site at Fallujah, they retaliated so strongly that they ended up killing quite a few of their attackers without loss. After that they were left alone
A few mornings after I arrived we were off again. We travelled in a three-vehicle convoy into a part of Baghdad where none of the guys had been before. The warehouse—the object of our interest and where our contact said the goods were stored—was tucked away in an unusually quiet part of the town. Even local drivers used the area sparingly. They went in, did what they had to and left again, always in a hurry.
From our perspective, it was worrying that there were few people around and no Coalition Military forces. There was no question that our shooters were extra vigilant. We waited in the street outside the warehouse while Mauritz and the man who had initiated the visit negotiated an entrance to the premises. We could see security was tight and that the place was protected. Once inside, we found an expansive shed packed with about 30 wooden crates which I immediately recognized as the kind of boxes the Soviets had once used to deliver aircraft spares—all were painted grey.
Having started the inspection and found the engines in reasonable shape, it was also apparent that there were no ‘passports’, which are Moscow’s equivalent for component logbooks. That straightaway rendered the engines and other spares useless because to get replacement documents would take time and cost good money.
There were supposed to be some helicopters, type unknown, included in the deal, but storage space was limited and there was certainly not enough room left for choppers, even if they were still in their original crates. However, interestingly, there was a South African Mamba armoured vehicle for sale. An ideal armoured personnel carrier that could carry ten passengers plus the drivers, it offers good protection against small arms fire and landmines. It had obviously either been stolen or illegally sold because it was in almost mint condition.
As Mauritz commented, that Mamba would have been ideal for his purposes but, under the circumstances, it was a very definite no-no. Anyone buying it would immediately be fingered as there were not too many South African-built APCs on Baghdad’s streets in those days.
The visit was a disappointment: no choppers, no deal. However, as we left, a particularly surly individual, who was in charge, said that if we drove to Kirkuk, in Northern Iraq, the next day, he’d show us the helicopters. It was a long shot, but Mauritz seemed quite happy with the idea, if only to visit some of his employees who were based in Kirkuk.
Early the next day we were on the road again, once more in a three-vehicle convoy, this time destined for Kirkuk. We travelled to Kirkuk at great speed, on a road that was quite narrow and packed with traffic. Parts of the trip were terrifying, especially when Iraqi drivers, quite fearlessly, overtook on the wrong side of the double white lines in the middle of the road.
We were almost halfway there when our driver shouted something out loud and started to take evasive action. When I looked up, there was a huge cloud of dust ahead with large chunks of a vehicle blocking the road. There were bodies everywhere and, on one side, a bloodied woman was trying to crawl out of a wreck. Our driver managed to negotiate a path clear of the obstacles and one of our shooters got out to clear the road. Our driver slowed to walking pace, but did not stop. When I queried this, he said that the insurgents sometimes liked to simulate accidents in a bid to kidnap Westerners. He added that there wasn’t much we could do because locals would stop and help. It seemed a bit harsh but Iraq, as the media liked to say, was ‘both difficult and dangerous’ in those faraway days. It was not really a place for us foreigners to wander about in anyway.
We arrived in Kirkuk late in the afternoon and met our contact. The helicopters were buried in an underground bunker, he said, which immediately raised flags. However, he assured us we’d be taken there the following morning.
We met Mohammed early the next day. Our source had indicated that he was local and had family ties with Saddam Hussein. Although he confirmed that the choppers were buried, he had no idea what kind they were. More flags went up. Although Coalition Forces were aware that the Iraqi Air Force had buried some of i
ts larger military aircraft in the desert, which were found years later, there was never any mention of the same being done to secrete helicopters.
Then our new-found friend Mohammed said that the choppers weren’t in Kirkuk after all, but in Tikrit, Saddam Hussein’s home town. He also stipulated that in order to view and inspect them, I’d have to go with him, alone and unarmed. We insisted on providing an escort but Mohammed was firm. No, he said, that would create problems.
By then I thought the only thing likely to emerge from that lot would be a hole in my head, after I’d been held hostage for who knows how long. I’m a pilot, not some kind of super hero, so the next day we climbed back into our vehicles and had another nightmare drive back to Baghdad.
Meanwhile, life in Baghdad went on as usual. The OSSI-Safenet houses in Baghdad were comfortable, we had good food and Mauritz looked after his people very well. The houses were strictly ‘dry’ and anybody caught drinking alcohol was sent home. Being a teetotaller himself, Mauritz was quite happy to enforce the rule. Another rule was that there would be no fraternization with local woman or even Western females who were working with the various organizations operating in Iraq. This rule was occasionally broken and a few of the crew were sent home for illegally ‘dipping their wick’.
One of the guys latched onto a very attractive lady who was linked to a client. He would sneak out of the house late at night and get back to base before the others were up. Unfortunately, he got caught returning from one of his nocturnal forays and was on a flight out of Baghdad, heading back to South Africa, that same afternoon. Basically, we were all fine as long as we abided by the basic rules, which were in place to protect us, as you simply did not wander about Baghdad on your own after dark.
The one problem that worried senior management was the presence of Iraqi female cleaners in the house. They would arrive in their black hijabs or burkas but, once they’d entered the confines of the base, that all came off and the pilots were left with some very fetching young things in tight jeans and sometimes even closer-fitting T-shirts. There was no doubt that some of these girls were in search of the original white knight in his shining armour to whisk them away from the horror and poverty of everyday Baghdad, with its shootings and suicide bombers, to a secure home in the West.