by Geoff Wolak
‘A week probably,’ Rizzo said.
It was getting dark as we approached the house, but it was actually a pub and bed and breakfast, other cottages visible down the valley. I ducked and entered a warm bar, finding just three men stood drinking and a lady behind the bar, all stunned to see me in my sodden state.
‘Get me some help here, our helicopter went down!’ I bellowed, louder than I had meant to.
Back outside, I helped Bob in, the patrons assisting.
Stepping to the bar, I said, ‘You got a phone?’
‘Aye,’ the concerned lady behind the bar said.
‘Call the police, tell them an RAF Puma helicopter has crashed, but we’re not sure where.’
She lifted the receiver.
‘Not sure where?’ a tall man repeated.
‘We jumped.’
‘Jumped?’
‘Into a lake. There was a loud bang, helicopter started shaking, losing height, so we jumped.’ I took my jacket off, making a mess, but it was a stone floor, the guys sitting and making even more of a mess.
‘I’m part of the local search and rescue, and I was a major in the Highlanders.’
‘Then get out there, sir, the crew may still be alive!’
A man ran out, the major waiting to use the phone as the lads took seats and got their cold wet clothes off. A teenage girl appeared, blankets in hand, and dished them out as I took in the Stag’s head on the wall staring down at me; it could have been related the one I had seen.
I grabbed her by the arm. ‘Four Brandies, before we freeze!’
She fetched the drinks as the major used the phone, the drinks downed quickly, loud sighs issued afterwards. I took off my shirt and sat down, tackling my sodden and muddy boots. With my trousers off, blanket around me, I stood, watching out for the low beams in this bar.
The major focused on me. ‘Yee nay got a body like that and gunshot wounds working as a clerk behind a desk. Who is yee?’
‘SAS.’
He nodded. ‘See a fair few round these parts. Anyhows, there’s a full mobilisation of the local rescuers underway, and we’ll sweep the valley for the helicopter, police on their way, and an ambulance, but tis an hour’s drive.’ He turned his head to the girl. ‘Megan, hot stew, quick as yee can.’ Facing me, he said, ‘Are yees hurt?’
‘Bob here is the worst, but there’s no internal bleeding, we’re just hurt from the fall into the lake, forty miles an hour.’
‘Yee were lucky. Helicopter went down last year, no survivors.’
I nodded, taking a moment to reflect as I studied the lads, now down to their pants and wrapped in blankets, my bare feet on the cold stone floor.
We were soon sat sipping the stew, and it was damn good, large chunks of meat and potato, the fire stoked up.
A man stepped in ten minutes later and looked us over. Facing the major, he said, ‘We found the helicopter, hit the bridge a mile down the valley, pilots ... dead, but we found a crewman. He’d jumped just before they hit, and slid across a muddy field.’
The crewman was helped inside, covered in mud and soaking wet, cuts on his face, and they sat him near me, many hands helping to get his flight suit off.
His eyes met mine, wild and afraid.
‘You made it,’ I told him.
‘I ... I jumped before we hit. Could ... could see what we were going to hit.’
‘I’m sorry that I ignored you back there, and overruled you, but when it comes to life and death ... we make quick decisions, and it paid off. We’re alive.’
He nodded, still quite stunned, the major listening in. With his wet clothes off they wrapped him up warm and sat him by the fire.
The major faced me. ‘The crewman did not want thee to jump?’
‘Not his choice, they’re our lives,’ I said. ‘Might be an enquiry, but better being told off ... than dead, sir.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed.
The crewman had heard, and turned towards us. ‘When you jumped .... the ... the weight was less and we lifted up, and turned a bit, otherwise we would have hit the cliff. But ... but it was hopeless and ... and I looked for a place to jump.’
‘And the normal procedure?’ I pressed.
‘You ... you brace for impact,’ he said, his face adopting an orange glow from the fire.
I looked up to the man who had brought him in. ‘What condition is that chopper in?’
The man glanced at the major. ‘None of yee would have survived. Pilots are squashed to an area twelve inches wide, back all mangled up. Miracle you’s alive.’
‘Quick thinking ... we’re alive,’ Rizzo stated.
I faced Rizzo as they attended the crewman, the bar now bustling, and warm with it. ‘There may be a stink because we jumped, so ... I shouted at Smurf to jump, and pushed you Rizzo against your will.’
‘Bollocks,’ Rizzo let out with a snarl. ‘We all jumped, you ain’t taking the blame. And if you hadn’t opened that door we’d be dead right now.’
‘Damn right,’ Smurf said.
‘We stick together,’ Rizzo insisted.
The SSM took a call, puzzled it, and faced an expectant Major Bradley. ‘The Puma has been found, it hit a bridge, pilots dead, crewman jumped clear, no one else aboard.’
‘Not aboard?’ Bradley repeated. ‘Then ... they missed the pickup.’
Richards stepped out.
The SSM said, ‘They’re not dead, sir.’
‘No?’ Richard queried, a look exchanged with Bradley.
‘No bodies.’
‘Could they have been thrown clear?’ Bradley asked.
‘There’s Search And Rescue there now, and the chopper is wedged under a bridge over a fast river.’
‘Bodies could be in the river,’ Bradley noted.
When the phone went, the SSM smiled. ‘Wilco!’
‘Yes, sir, alive and well, sat having a bite to eat with the guys, Bob a bit hurt.’
‘Hurt, hurt how? Did you make the RV?’
‘Of course we did, but then the chopper went bang and started spinning out of control. We saw a lake coming up, so we jumped.’
‘You jumped!’
‘Yes, cuts and bruises. Tell the Major to relax, we’ve got a comfy bed and breakfast for the night. Wilco out.’
The SSM put the phone down and faced the expectant officers. ‘They jumped ... into a lake, after the helicopter lost control.’
‘They jumped!’ Bradley repeated, a puzzled look exchanged with the Colonel.
‘They’re now in a comfy bed and breakfast for the night,’ the SSM said with a smile.
We each had a soft double bed for the night, since it was low season and there were no guests, and after all the food and the free booze I slept well, up at 6am. Plodding downstairs wrapped in a blanket, I found my clothes in a neat pile, all dry, and got dressed. Outside, I found the major pulling up.
‘We’ve recovered your kit and weapons,’ he informed me, a second man opening the rear of the Land Rover and assisting as I took the weapons inside and laid them out on a table. Identifying the dry clothes, I took them upstairs to the lads, then their Bergens. With a cup of tea made for me, I stripped and checked the M16s, cleaning them.
‘We’re very grateful for your help, Major,’ I told him as he sat with me.
‘Nay bother, Laddy, it’s what I do, and not much happens around here.’
‘Have the bodies been moved?’
‘Nay,’ he said, giving me a look. ‘Be removing them piece by small piece. Another helicopter just landed, some crash investigators or something, a tent being put up. Same as last year, and that took six weeks to clean up and sort out.’
I nodded, and sipped my tea. ‘Pilots paid a price, probably had families as well.’
‘It’s all a risk, flying. Tornado went down not far from here some time ago.’
The lads enjoyed large breakfasts cooked by the lady and her daughter, and a phone call an hour later warned us of an inbound Chinook bringing people in, and that we�
��d go out on it.
At the prescribed time we were ready, and looking like we were just about to go on patrol. Hearing the heavy drone of the Chinook I shook the major’s hand and thanked him, and even Rizzo thanked him. The Chinook landed in a field, men and kit pouring off, RAF personnel, and we boarded, Bergens dropped, seats taken.
The Chinook flew out to sea and south, and we landed at RAF Valley on Anglesey an hour later, an RAF coach laid on to take us down to Hereford. We all moaned, because it was four hour drive.
After two hours we stopped at a roadside cafe, a meal enjoyed; I had money in a plastic bag and it had survived intact. Late afternoon we arrived back, soon lugging our kit down, quite a crowd waiting for us, including Sergeant Crab.
I saluted the Colonel. ‘Never finished the exercise, sir.’
Richards turned to the Major. ‘Mark that down in his file as a fail.’
The Major nodded. ‘And a night in a comfy bed and breakfast when you should have been roughing it.’
‘Should have been dead, sir,’ I told him, a few of the lads helping us with our kit. In the interest room, many people in attendance, we got the kettle on and held a debrief over an hour.
The major finally said, ‘The correct procedure is to brace for impact and follow the instructions of the crewman, and the RAF have already delicately mentioned that, so I told them to fuck off. If the bird is going down, can’t do any harm to jump. In the Falklands we suffered our biggest ever losses due to a Sea King going down – a fact that I reminded the RAF of.
‘Still, let’s not start jumping from helicopters unless we’re sure it’s on fire and going down. Wilco, you moved quickly, well done, or we’d be down four lads, some of our best.’ He took a moment. ‘Rizzo, how did Wilco do on the exercise?’
‘Shit hot, no problems.’
‘Sergeant Crab, how did Wilco do at the RVs?’
‘He was early, and the little shit crept up on me and startled me.’
Everyone laughed.
The Major continued, ‘OK, today is Wednesday, you four have till Monday off. Bob, go see the M.O. for ten minutes.’
Before we left, I suggested to Smurf and Bob that we have a curry later, as well as several pints. They were in agreement, so I invited Rizzo along. At 7pm we met in the Indian restaurant, the beers ordered with the starters, the food going down as well as the beer, and now Rizzo was part of the gang, talk about a trip down to Newport this Friday night, smart clothes.
The troubled province
The Major sent for me. I saluted and sat. He began, ‘We’ll be deploying a team to Northern Ireland, half the squadron, sniff of some trouble brewing, more than just a Saturday night riot. You’re new, but we’ll be taking you along for the experience.’
‘Fine, sir. Should I pack a warm coat?’
‘Indeed, it rains all the damn time. We leave on Monday for Bessbrook, about six weeks away to start, some rotations back for R&R.’
I stood. ‘My personal weapon, my pistol; should I be taking that home with me?’
He studied me for a minute, puzzling my meaning. ‘Officially ... no, unofficially ... many do, and if there is a threat then you are allowed to use it for self defence, even to carry it around under you arm. We ... are a special case for such weapons.
‘It’s not against the rules ... unless you get caught using it improperly – which is vague at best, then it might be, and you could go to prison. So ... it’s all down to a test of reasonableness; you have to prove a threat and its correct use, and I’d have to authorise its carrying in the domestic UK environment beforehand. Across the water ... keep it on you, even in the shower.’
On the Monday morning we boarded two loud Chinooks on the helipad, making ourselves popular with the locals, but at least it was 10am. The choppers took us due west to the coast, turned north at the coast, Captain Marks asleep and drooling, and at Anglesey the choppers turned west across the water. As soon as we crossed the Irish coast it started to rain, the day darkening.
‘Always fucking rains here,’ Rizzo said, shouting to be heard.
I nodded, and tapped the pistol under my arm. Over here I was fair game, and a valued target. If a gunman shot me he’d get a good bounty.
We touched down ten minutes later, and I lugged my kit out, only to peer across at a tall and bleak grey stone building. Yes, it did indeed look like a dated mill, Bradley was right about that. Since it was a dated mill, it fitted.
We sloshed through the rain to Land Rovers, soon to a side door and lugging our kit to the second floor, not the wooden huts we had been threatened with. The place looked cold and grey, but at least the walls were solid. Intel and Signals were on the same floor, so we’d not have to share with any regular army lads. But it turned out that four cooks were in a room next door, but no one was about to upset them, they were the most important people in the building.
I peered out of the window at a grey sky and misty-rain, a few wooden huts noticed below at the side of the heliport, a few green Land Rovers, the town close by with its uniform grey houses, and the hills in the distance – now shrouded in mist. I could not see the viaduct someone said was here, but I could see a sign for ‘Teeny-Weeny Airways’, and two Gazelle helicopters.
A helicopter took off as I turned and checked my locker and kit. Smurf was opposite me, Rizzo alongside – which meant snoring, and the new guy, Roach, was opposite Rizzo. We set-up our lockers, and then had a nose around, and I sat with Capt Harris for a cup of tea.
‘Welcome to bandit country,’ he told me. ‘Around here, even the nine year old girls would slit your throat.’
‘So no popping to the local pub then?’ I quipped.
He shook his head with a smile. ‘Not recommended, and you’d not be allowed off base anyhow.’
‘How’s the intel looking, sir?’
‘14 Intel have some leads, and the RUC have confirmed them, and MI6 are ... not playing nice and handing over what they know yet, and MI5 in Hollywood are being spoilt brats as usual. Just another day in the bogs. Joint intel meetings must be fun, like a game of poker with people you don’t like.’
A man appeared behind me, Harris smiling and standing. ‘Talking of people you may not like,’ he said as he stood and shook hands with another captain.
I stood as well. ‘Sir.’
‘So ... the famous Wilco.’
‘So ... the ... infamous 14 Intel. Sir.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Harris, have you been poisoning his mind about us?’ he teased.
‘Not about 14 Intel, about you.’
The other captain laughed. ‘It’s all true.’ He faced me. ‘Will you be going ... outside the wire?’
‘I doubt that, sir, I’m a newbie.’
‘Rumours still abound about you ... in the Gulf.’ He waited.
‘What rumours are they, sir?’ I waited.
‘That certain high ranking officers were ... caught with their pants down, and that you spirited them out of the country.’
‘If you mean, sir, that I drove an air-conditioned jeep in the direction I was told to drive it, then yes, I did indeed do ... nothing interesting, and got a campaign medal for sleeping in nice hotel rooms – air raids aside.’
He laughed.
Harris turned to me. ‘You know what the cap badge signifies? A pansy resting on its laurels.’
‘Wilco, best you avoid such guidance and tutelage.’
‘I couldn’t even spell tutelage, sir.’ Smiling, the captain headed off.
‘Can he be trusted?’ I asked Harris.
‘Him, yes, others, no.’
I spotted Captain Marks sat going through the paperwork, but I also figured he had the hots for a nice young lady captain from Intel sat nearby.
That evening I ventured down to the showers, wash-bag in hand, but they were damned cold; someone had used all the hot water earlier. I was, however, informed that the hottest hot water could be had at 5am, which was perfect. I found lukewarm water in the taps, so filled a dated and c
hipped sink.
Someone flushed and came out as I was washing, a big bull of a man. I studied his mirror reflection. ‘What’s wrong with a wee cold shower, eh. Not soft, are yee?’ came out in a Scottish accent.
‘Why don’t you run along and play somewhere else.’ I eased off my jacket, and started unbuttoning my shirt.
‘You’s a fancy SAS boy, is yer?’
I wondered if he had been drinking.
‘No, RAF, a medic.’
‘Ha, fucking RAF crabs.’
‘Perhaps you should go now,’ I encouraged.
‘Or what?’ He stood staring at me.
I took off my shirt, placed it down, then faced him. ‘Or else I’ll get annoyed.’
He looked me up and down. ‘What the fuck is you?’
‘I’m ... a medic in the RAF.’
Another flush, and a stall opened, another bull of a man, a staff sergeant. He stopped dead. ‘Sergeant Holly, two steps backwards if value your life. He’s no medic in the RAF. Go on.’
Holly stepped back, glanced at the other man, and left with a sneer.
The staff sergeant approached. ‘I’d appreciate it ... if you’d not damage any of my lads.’
‘Am I in the wrong set of bogs, Staff Sergeant?’
‘No, but ours are blocked, so ... we’ll try not to use these too often. Old building, you see.’
I returned to my washing.
‘I saw you box, four times. Why did you stop?’
I took a moment, studying my mirror reflection. ‘The men I killed had wives and families. And ... I was told to stop.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Good to meet you anyway.’
‘What do you do here?’ I asked him.
‘Scots Borderers, we’re here for another three months.’
‘Drive safely out there, Staff Sergeant,’ I told him.
‘You too.’
In the morning, a burly warrant officer came and found me, asking for me, which caused questions about how they knew I was here. The C.O. and Captain Marks brought him to me, the warrant officer looking like a boxer.
I stood. ‘Sir.’
The Major waited.
The warrant officer said, ‘Honour to meet you, saw you box.’