by Chris Ryan
By this time I was extremely fit. Every day I’d do a six-kilometre run, followed by a ten-kilometre bike ride, and then swim two kilometres, and run the four kilometres home.
At last – at the age of twenty-two, over six years since I had first started going to 23 TA – the time came for me to go down to Hereford and take the 22 selection course. This was spread over six months in total.
We began with four weeks on the hills, then two weeks’ tactics training, followed by five weeks in the jungle in Brunei, then combat survival followed by continuation training.
In the hills there were some days when I felt we were being crucified, but on the whole it wasn’t too bad.
In tactics training, I found I was confident with a weapon, but I was shocked by the state of some of the troops who came up: their weapon-handling drills were poor, to say the least.
In the jungle we were put into six-man patrols, and sent to live in a base camp from which we moved out every day to do range work, navigation or RV drills. I found it tough-going. Navigation posed no problem, and I discovered that I could mix with other guys easily enough. But I didn’t like the physical difficulties of living in the jungle, where you’re wet, filthy and stinking for weeks on end.
Back at Hereford, at the end of the course, we were all taken into the camp cinema. Nothing had been said about who had passed or failed. Then the sergeant major announced that he would read out a list of names. The people on it were to go back to the accommodation block, wait there, and return in fifteen minutes’ time. He read out twenty names, including mine. Had we passed or failed? Nobody knew. Returning to the cinema a quarter of an hour later, we found that the other half of the course had disappeared. We sat down again. The sergeant major stood up and said, ‘Right, you lot. You haven’t passed . . .’
There was an intake of breath. Everyone’s heart hit the floor.
‘. . . yet,’ he added.
Faces lit up. Everyone burst out laughing. There was more training to come – but so what?
We did combat survival – in which six more of the guys failed – and after that, build-up for Northern Ireland and the counter-terrorist team. Then, at last, the survivors passed, and we were given our berets. It was a tremendous thrill for me. After my years in the Territorials, I’d finally achieved my goal.
Now, at the age of twenty-three, I was a member of 22 SAS!
Each member of the SAS is also attached to a regular army unit, which is known as their ‘parent unit’. If Special Forces work doesn’t work out for any reason, the serving soldier can then be RTU’d – returned to unit – so they are no longer in the SAS, but are still in the British army. Most recruits come to selection from their units, but as I’d gone straight from the Territorials, I had to have a parent unit now I was in the Regiment. I chose the Parachute Regiment, and spent eight weeks with them before returning to Hereford.
As soon as I became a member of ‘B’ Squadron I did a couple of exercises with Government agents in the United Kingdom and Europe. In one, which was highly realistic, we flew into Jersey in the middle of the night, our helicopter landing in a public park, to kidnap a businessman who – according to the scenario – had been in touch with the Soviets and might defect. Wearing civilian clothes, we booked into hotels and made contact with agents who already had the target under surveillance. Then, having hired a van, we snatched him as he came out of a restaurant late at night. After a quick transfer to a car, we drove to a pick-up point on the coast and the helicopter, which had been cruising out of sight off-shore, slipped in at wave-top height to land on the beach and collect us.
That was the first time I’d been exposed to anything of the kind, and I thought, This is for me!
Next I went on to the SP (Special Projects) or anti-terrorist team, and found it really exciting. Part of the team was on stand-by the whole time, for immediate response to a threat like the hijacking of an aircraft. We all trained to a very high level, each guy putting down at least a thousand rounds a week.
I loved being in the SAS, and was fiercely loyal to it. But as I lay against the bank of the wadi, Hereford seemed a long way off. I knew I would have to rely on every second of my training if I was going to get out of the Iraqi desert alive . . .
We’d become so confused during the night that it took us some time to work out which day this was. We decided it was Saturday morning. Time passed slowly, but we weren’t too uncomfortable. The sun was reviving us, we were chatting in low voices, and we thought the River Euphrates was only just over the next hill to the north, which was cheering.
We said to ourselves, ‘We’ll hit the river, get some water, and walk out into Syria – no problem.’ We told ourselves we were safe for the time being, and that one more good night’s push would bring us to the Syrian border. We’d put so much ground between us and the scene of the contact that we didn’t think anyone would come looking for us.
Of course, we were wondering about Vince. I hoped against hope that, like us, he’d found a warmer place; but in my heart of hearts I felt that he was dead. I imagined him lying down in a hole among the snow, falling asleep, and drifting away, without any pain or knowledge of what was happening. At the back of my mind I also kept hoping that we would see the rest of the patrol appear – that we’d hear one of them say something and they’d pop up out of the ground.
I took off my boots – one at a time, in case we were surprised – to have a look at my feet. As I thought, they were badly blistered along the sides, especially round the ball, and on the heels. But I had nothing to treat them with, and could only put my boots back on again.
We spent an hour cleaning our weapons, which were covered in mud and grit, doing them one at a time in case we got bounced. In my right-hand pouch I had a small but well-stocked kit – pull-through, four-by-two-inch cleaning patches, oil, rag, and a tool like a pocket knife fitted with a screwdriver, scraper and gouge. With this I gave my 203 a thorough going-over. I pulled a piece of four-by-two through the barrel, cleaned and oiled the working parts, and checked the loaded magazines to make sure no grit had got in among the rounds. By working carefully, I stripped the weapon and reassembled it making hardly a sound. If you release the working parts of a 203 normally, they snap forward with a sharp crack, but if you handle them gently, you don’t need to make a sound.
Then, at about midday, we heard the noise we’d already learned to dread: the jingle of bells.
Goats! Again!
We went down flat with our weapons and looked along the little valley. There they were – a scatter of brown, black, grey and dirty white animals, coming slowly into the wadi from the north-east. Then their minder appeared and sat down on a rock in full view, only fifty metres away. He was a young man with thick, curly black hair and stubbled cheeks. There he sat, daydreaming, kicking his feet, chewing on stalks of dead grass.
The goats began feeding our way. Stan and I lay still with our 203s ready. ‘Right,’ I whispered. ‘If he comes up on us, we’re going to have to take him out.’
I didn’t want to kill a civilian. But I felt certain that if the man saw us, he’d go back to the nearest habitation and give us away. It flashed through my mind that we could tie him up. But if we did that, he might die of exposure. I thought, He’s either going to escape or die – so we might as well do him now.
The goats kept feeding and moving towards us. They reached our position. When they saw us, they jerked their heads up, but that was all – a jerk, and on they’d go. All this while the herder was sitting there, looking up at the sky now and then. Certainly he hadn’t locked on to anything.
‘He’s bound to come after them,’ I breathed, ‘and if he does, we’ll do him.’
We didn’t want to fire a shot, for obvious reasons, but both of us had knives. Mine was a folding knife – a good one, but with a small blade. Stan had a k-bar bayonet on his webbing with a six- or seven-inch blade.
But Stan, being a gentleman and a good soldier, wasn’t happy. ‘Shouldn’t we
take the chance of seeing if he’s got a vehicle? We could nick it and drive off.’
‘No, we’ll do him.’
The young man stood up.
He looked quite a big guy – about the size of Stan, and hefty with it. Immediately I changed my plan. ‘Stan,’ I whispered, ‘give us that knife. You grab him and I’ll do him.’
‘No,’ Stan muttered. ‘You’re not having it.’
‘Then you’d better do him . . .’
Suddenly it was too late. With the guy nearly on top of us, Stan jumped up and grabbed him.
‘Sit down, mate!’ he said loudly. ‘How’re you doing? Good? Right! Sit down!’
The guy jumped, and let out a stream of Arabic, but Stan forced him down on the bank-side. I sat down too, staring at him. He was in his twenties and dressed like the village idiot in a big old overcoat of what looked like dark grey tweed. His hair was messy and he had several ragged jumpers on under the overcoat and slip-on leather shoes. He kept looking at me, but I didn’t say anything.
Stan did all the talking. ‘Car?’ he asked. ‘Tractor?’ He made driving motions with his hands. ‘House?’
He drew in the air, but our visitor didn’t understand a word of English. All he said was ‘Aiwa’, which means ‘Yes’.
‘Where’s there a vehicle?’
‘Aiwa.’
‘How far to walk?’
‘Aiwa.’
‘Listen,’ Stan said after a bit. ‘I’ll go with him and see if we can get a tractor.’
It seemed incredible to me that Stan should want to go off with a total stranger. I reminded him that we were aliens in a foreign country, where we had no business to be. I knew we’d get no friendly help from the Iraqis. ‘Suppose this was World War Two,’ I said, ‘and we were a couple of German paratroopers, lost in the Welsh mountains. We meet this farm lad and try to chat him up. Of course he’d say he’s going to help us. But what does he want really? To get us in the nick. Nothing else.’
Even that didn’t change Stan’s mind. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the risk and go with him.’
‘No, Stan. You’re staying here.’
‘Chris, I want to go.’
I thought he was crazy. But I couldn’t force him to stay. ‘OK,’ I told him. ‘I can’t order you, because we’re on our own. But listen, mate: I don’t want you to go. It’ll mean us splitting up. You’ll be on your own. You’re making a big mistake here.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave my weapon and webbing with you. Then I won’t look so aggressive. I’ll just walk next to him.’
I could see he was determined. ‘All right,’ I told him, ‘I’ll wait here for you till six-thirty, last light. If you’re not back by then, I’m off on this bearing.’ And I gave him the northerly course we’d already decided on.
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘Go on, then. When you’re out of sight, I’ll take your weapon and webbing fifty metres up that dry stream bed, and hide them there.’
So Stan stood up with the Arab and said, ‘Come on, cobber. Let’s go.’ The two of them started walking off, with the Arab whistling for his goats to follow. I crawled down to the bottom of the wadi where I sat and watched them. When they’d gone a couple of hundred metres, I suddenly thought, No! This is wrong! and I yelled out, ‘Stan! Stan, come back here!’
Back he came, almost running.
‘Think about what you’re doing,’ I told him. ‘Leave your webbing if you like, but at least take your weapon.’
‘I don’t want to look too aggressive.’
‘Sling it over your shoulder then, and carry it down the side of your body – but have it with you. And if you change your mind, put one into him and we’ll sit the day out together.’
But Stan was overboard about his new friend. ‘No, no, Chris,’ he said. ‘He’s all right. He’s offered me food.’
‘What food?’
‘It’s only a few berries, but I trust the guy. He seems friendly. If we get to a vehicle, I’ll give him a sovereign.’
Away Stan went with the Iraqi, meandering down the dry stream bed. For nearly a kilometre he remained in sight. He’d wrapped his shamag round his head, and from a distance he looked quite like another Arab. I could see the two of them trying to chat together, matey as anything. In the end they went round a bend to the left and disappeared.
Now I’m on my own, I thought.
Time crawled by. After a couple of hours I took Stan’s webbing and tucked it into the side of the stream bed, where I’d told him it would be. On top of it I left four of the extra 203 rounds which I’d taken from Vince. Then I had nothing to do but wait for dark.
As the hours dragged past, I grew more and more jumpy. Several times I imagined I heard something. Whenever that happened, I’d look out, hoping to see Stan returning.
Dusk came on. By 1730 I was very anxious. I’d have to make a decision soon. I was hungry, thirsty, cold and on my own. Six o’clock came. I took one last look back down the wadi. Night had come down, and there was still no sign. I kept hoping I’d see the lights of a vehicle heading out – but there was nothing.
It was a tough decision. My last friend had disappeared. He could still be on his way back. But when 1830 came, I thought, This is it. You can’t sit around here any longer.
So I checked my compass and started walking north.
Alone.
Saturday 26 January: Escape – Night Three
For fifteen minutes I tabbed it steadily over level, open ground, with darkness settling in on the desert all round me. Then I happened to look over my shoulder, and I saw a set of headlights coming up the wadi I’d just left. Stan’s got a vehicle after all, I thought. Brilliant!
I started running back as fast as I could. I must have been halfway back to my start-point when suddenly I saw that it wasn’t one set of lights coming towards me, but two. Immediately I thought, He can’t have two vehicles. He must have been captured, and this is the enemy. If he’d been on his own, he’d never have brought two vehicles. So I turned and ran north again.
Already I was out of breath. Behind me, the vehicles had driven up the side of the wadi and were heading straight across the open desert towards me. The clouds parted and the moon shone through, lighting the place up like day. It may have been my imagination, but my smock seemed to have become luminous, shining like an electric beacon. The old adrenalin had started up, and my heart was going like a sledgehammer. Then I saw a little bush with a shadow behind it, and threw myself down into that tiny patch of black.
As I lay there panting, I frantically sorted out my kit. I checked the magazine on the 203, and piled spare mags in a heap beside me. I opened out the 66 so that it was ready to fire. I even bent together the ends of the safety pins on my white phos grenades, so that I could whip them out quickly if need be.
For a moment I got a breather. The lights swung round, whipping wildly up and down as the vehicles went over bumps and headed back into the wadi. I heard the banging of doors. Obviously some guys had got out to have a look round the place where the goatherd had found us in the morning. I squinted through the night-sight, trying to make out what they were doing, but the glare from the lights shone everything else out. Then the vehicles moved off again and started driving about the floor of the wadi.
The moment the lights were away from me, I picked up my kit, stuffed things into the webbing pouches down my front, and legged it.
Now I was really running, looking right and left for cover. Suddenly the lights swung round again and they were coming at me. I dropped down and got my kit out once more. I set up the 203 with the battle-sight, and as I piled the spare magazines, it went through my mind that this was just like range practice. I cocked the 66 again, lifted the bomb-sights on the 203, and waited.
I didn’t know if they’d seen me or not. But they were driving towards me at a steady roll. I got the 66 lined up on the leading pair of lights and listened to the sound of my heart pounding.
The
lights were still coming. Obviously the vehicles weren’t going to stop. Someone on board must have realized that I would be heading due north, going for the river, and they were driving on that bearing. The wagons were rolling at maybe 15 mph, and the lights were quite steady. They would pass so close that there was no chance of them not seeing me.
It was them or me.
I hugged the ground and tried to stop myself shaking. An age seemed to pass as the vehicles ground on.
Fifty metres, and they kept coming.
There were two Land Rover-type vehicles. I couldn’t tell how many men they might contain. As they approached, I held the sight of the 66 aligned between the front pair of lights. When they were twenty metres off, I pulled the trigger.
Whoooosh! went the launcher, right in my ear. Out front there was a big bang as the rocket took the vehicle head-on. There was no flash. Just a heavy explosion, and a cloud of white smoke billowing out in the moonlight.
The vehicle rolled to a stop.
I dropped the 66, grabbed the 203 and lined up the grenade-sight on the second pair of lights, a few metres to the left of the first. From maybe forty metres I smacked that one right in the bonnet.
Then I was up and running towards the enemy.
In a moment I had reached the first vehicle and put a burst into it. Coming to the second, I sprayed it all down the side, through the canvas back. Then I looked into the back and put another burst in. There were men in the back wearing dishdashes. I let off another burst into the driver’s compartment. Then I had to change magazines. At the front again, I put more rounds into the first vehicle. Both vehicles were now in bits.
Only then did I realize I’d left the other magazines piled up at my firing point. I sprinted back to them, snatched them up, stuffed them down the front of my smock and ran.
I ran till I thought my heart was going to burst. I imagined that everybody was on to me and chasing me. The moon was so bright that I felt as if a spotlight was beaming down on me. I was swept up in panic, just as I had been when chased as a kid. It was as if I’d been found out, and was on my own. I ran till I had to slow down: my throat was heaving, my chest exploding, my mouth dry as the desert. I’d had no water all through that day, and soon I was so tired that it was painful even to walk.