by Geoff Wolak
Smurf and Bob would be together, and I would pass them first, radio contact to be established, the idea being that they would warn me off an area. Hopefully.
I tested my radio on each pair as they stepped outside, the Land Rovers waiting in a shroud of strange mist created by the overhead lights and the drizzle, and looking as if they were protected by some angelic force field. The pairs mounted up, four soldiers and two troopers to each of the Land Rovers, and the column headed out into the cold and the dark. I went back to bed for an hour.
At 5pm I was ready, the route double checked, the pairs all calling in and confirming they were ready in their lying-up positions. I got my kit on, double checked it, checked my AKM, spare magazines, and had a coffee with the Major and Tyler in the Intel Section. Finally it was time, and they wished me luck, Tyler looking nervous for me. He was also due to stay awake for the entire duration of my insert, with Sergeant Crab.
I checked with the rescue squad, that they were awake and kitted ready, I said hello to the Lynx pilots, then joined a Borderers’ five-Land Rover patrol, soon out the gate and off.
One of the Borderers sergeants I knew was in the back of my Land Rover, rifle held ready. ‘You take care out there. And going out alone, yee must be mad.’
I smiled. ‘There’s no skill in it, you just need to be lucky. When your luck runs out there’s nothing you can do, so no point worrying about it.’
I put on my over-boots being keenly observed, my gloves and my facemask, the small light in the roof letting the soldiers see my camouflage kit as I loaded and cocked my rifle, checking my pistol.
Thirty minutes later I stepped out the rear of the Land Rover and ducked quickly into a tree line, the patrol moving off. Soon it was just a damp black night, no sounds apart from the wind in the trees. I found the track that I would follow and started along it, and this was terrifying, knowing that the IRA had my route and time and may be waiting somewhere unseen.
I slowed my pace, I listened, and I paused every ten yards, moving from tree to tree. Still, I was a dark object, and a quiet one, and they could not see in the dark, so I picked up my pace. Twenty minutes in, and I clicked on the radio.
‘Smurf, you there?’
‘Yeah, cold and fucking wet.’
‘Any movement?’
‘Not a fucking thing since it got dark.’
‘OK, fingers off triggers, I’m moving past you now.’
I walked slowly past where they should have been, and onwards into a black night, following a barely discernible path.
At the next ambush point I slowed right down. ‘Stretch, you there?’
‘Yeah, all cosy and warm – not!’
‘Fingers off triggers, I’m walking past.’
‘Some guy with a dog came past just as it got dark, he looked a bit suspicious.’
‘Roger that.’ I moved off, but then the radio crackled.
‘Wilco, hold up. Standby.’
I waited, finger on trigger.
‘Wilco, Rizzo has a contact, two men hidden.’
‘That’s a way ahead,’ I noted. ‘OK, I’m on my way there.’
At the next ambush point, which was Swifty, I radioed, ‘Swifty, you there.’
‘Yeah, and no movement, the action is with Rizzo, at that bridge. Wait ... ’
I waited.
‘Wilco, police are raiding a house near that bridge, two men have legged it. Do we stand down?’
‘Yes, they won’t be back. Call base and tell them I said abort, I’ll go back with you, call for a pickup.’
An hour later we were back.
‘What the hell happened?’ the Major asked Rizzo.
‘Fucking police scared off our guys,’ he complained. ‘They saw a house being raided and legged it.’
‘Well at least we know it worked,’ I told the Major, and he nodded.
We all cleaned up, got a hot tea, and most headed off to bed. After a hot shower I joined Tyler, Crab and Harris.
‘It worked,’ Tyler keenly said. ‘Pity about that police raid. We checked with the RUC and it was just routine, some guy threatening his neighbour’s dog.’
I cradled a cup of tea, and blew onto it. ‘Next Thursday then.’ I faced Sergeant Crab. ‘Walking that route was scary.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘And another half mile and you’d have been in their sights.’
As we sat there, Captain Harris showed me intel on a farm, not far from the Armagh control tower at Newtownhamilton.
‘I can do that, and by myself,’ I told him. I faced Tyler. ‘How about ... you plan an OP, sir, just me, hidden, 24hrs in and out, and ... maybe the Major will approve it. I can be in radio contact with the tower in case of trouble.’
Tyler took in the faces, and nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Under the grass?’ Crab asked.
I nodded. ‘Easy number. I get paid to lie down.’
‘Show me this new kit,’ Crab asked, and I fetched the trousers and jacket, Crab trying the jacket on and laying down in the Intel Section, before trying my face mask. ‘Nice and cosy, I like the leather.’
The next morning the Major had his ‘unhappy’ face on. ‘We’ve been summoned by the head of the Army.’
‘By the Queen, sir?’ I mock puzzled.
‘The General.’
‘Ah, so no tea at the palace then. Am I ... in trouble, sir?’
‘He wants a word, no detail as to what the word is about, but it’s probably the cows, so it could be a loud word.’
‘Correct me if I am wrong, sir, but he can’t discipline one of your men, he has to go through channels.’
‘True, but he is commander of all ground forces here, and technically there is a state of emergency still in place – since 1969, so he does have ultimate authority – and we’d not want to upset him.’
‘What should I wear, sir?’
‘What have you got?’
‘These combats ... or jeans and t-shirt that need ironing.’
‘Go as you are.’
We set off in a cramped Gazelle helicopter an hour later, a flight up to Lisburn and to HQ GOC, and touched down in the rain, soon to a Land Rover and whisked the short distance to the HQ Building, in through the Army Press Office door. I figured I’d not be popular with the press officers at the moment.
‘Wilco!’ a Major cheerfully called, and I recognised him from Riyadh.
‘How are you, sir?’ I asked, shaking his hand.
‘I’d rather be in Riyadh.’ He checked his shoulder. ‘What happened in Riyadh ... stays in Riyadh.’
‘I’ve never even been there, sir,’ I offered in a conspiratorial whisper.
He smiled and patted me on the shoulder as I passed him.
‘Sounds like your time in Riyadh was ... most unpleasant,’ the Major noted.
‘Sometimes, sir, if the air con in my five-star hotel room broke, it could take an hour to fix it.’
‘Harsh conditions, yes. I was in a fucking tent, sometimes the back of a lorry.’
Around the next corner, a colonel stopped and smiled. ‘Wilco.’ He put his fists on his hips and I saluted, followed by the Major. ‘Paid your hotel bill from Riyadh yet?’
I closed in on the officer. ‘I was ordered to go there, sir, and told what room to use,’ I said. ‘And I was almost certain that the bar tab was paid before I left.’
‘Come on, the General is waiting, and he’s been well briefed on you.’
I exchanged a look with the Major and we followed the colonel into a large office furnished with a central oval desk, six officers sat with the General, most of who smiled widely when they saw me. I stamped to attention and saluted, as did the Major.
‘Come in, sit down,’ the General ordered, a General Dennet. We sat. ‘It feels like I already know you, Wilco,’ he began, ‘having heard so much about you, and I still can’t figure out just what the heck you are. Some here knew you in Riyadh, one officer here had an entire platoon wiped out by you in a fist fight, most saw you shot in th
e London Marathon, many saw you boxing, and now ... now you’re causing waves over here with the SAS.
‘First the kidnapping, then a shoot-out with two gunmen shot in the arse, and now – apparently – you go out on patrol alone. And let’s not forget the three cows.’
‘Should I have legal counsel present, sir?’ I asked without sounding concerned.
‘Colonel Bennet? He and I go way back, we started together, and I’ve already discussed you with him. No need to call him.’
‘So how can I help you today, sir?’
‘I wanted to put a face to the name, and see for myself someone with a larger-than-life reputation, someone whose name comes across my desk most every week. You see ... the officers here are all fans of yours, yet logic would dictate that you’re bad news, and a loose cannon around these parts. Yet, on closer examination, you remain mostly blameless.’ He eased back. ‘Tell me about the cows.’
‘Quite simple really, sir. I had an IRA gunman in my sights, and our OP was about to get a close-up visit, then the gunman ducked behind a barn, so the OP had no shot, I had the shot. A few seconds later and a herd of cows blocked that shot. Lives were at stake – no pun intended, sir.’
‘And you shot a cow ... that remained upright.’
‘In the SAS, we’re taught to shoot without being noticed, so the cow didn’t notice the bullet that killed it, sir.’
A few officers laughed, the General stared back, and the Major glared at the side of my head.
‘There’s a copy of that cow up on the wall of every damn barracks,’ the General noted. ‘And then you wrote a letter of apology.’
‘I didn’t think they’d take it seriously, sir.’
‘The Republicans now say: if you get a death threat in green crayon you know it’s the SAS.’
I smiled widely, glancing at the Major, but he was not a happy bunny.
The General continued, ‘They have a few jokes about the ages of SAS troopers dropping, as well as IQ levels. Still, there’ll be no terrorists left the way you’re going.’ He turned his head a notch, to Major Bradley. ‘Major, I’d like to think that ... your efforts were by design, and we can now say that the IRA are seriously on the back foot and running out of warm bodies. Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The General took a moment, and faced me. ‘Without legal counsel present, do you know anything about the shootout across the border?’
I was expecting this, and I saw the Major stiffen in his seat. ‘Sir, if my CO asked me to go over the border and shoot someone, then that’s what I’ll do, and not worry about it. In this case ... I was not involved, nor do I know who was, but if you want to give us the credit, kindly do so.’
‘You would follow an illegal order?’ he pressed.
‘The judgement of that is down to the Major, and I’m not about to start second-guessing what I should or should not do; it’s all dangerous, and borderline legal, every time I fire a shot. To do the job and to sleep at night I pass the responsibility for thinking, worrying and judging ... to the Major, and that makes for a better night’s sleep, sir.
‘If someone like me were to weigh up the dangers each time, then most of the training, the exercises, and certainly the operations of the SAS - would be seen as risky ... and therefore best avoided. If I gave too much thought to those aspects I couldn’t function. At some point I have to put complete faith in the Major, and in the plan he comes up with.’
The General nodded. ‘The life of the passenger is in the pilot’s hands.’
‘Correct, sir, and I don’t need to worry, I need to take a breath, put my faith in something and then accept the consequences. That way I clear my head.’
‘You jumped ... out of a helicopter in trouble, not trusting the pilot, or your life in his hands,’ the General noted, a hint of a smirk evident.
‘I heard a bang, we started losing height and wobbling, doing a hundred miles an hour towards a cliff face. Jumping was no more risky than staying aboard.’
Major Bradley said, ‘He saved three lives, for which he is in line for an award.’
‘I am?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Why so surprised?’ the General asked.
‘The RAF were not too happy about us jumping, sir. Apparently, we should have obeyed the rules and died in our seats.’
‘You’re due three enquiries already -’
‘Two, sir.’
‘No, three, since the IRA have accused you personally of being involved south of the border.’
‘Oh,’ I let out. ‘And do they ... have any evidence?’
‘Not so much as a fingerprint nor footprint,’ the General began. ‘Although they found marks instead of footprints, as if over-boots were worn, and the Garda have noted that just three weapons were fired, the gunmen who were wounded not getting off any rounds.
‘The survivors indicated camouflaged men, and the Garda noted the odd situation whereby all of the weapons and ammo present had fingerprints, apart from the three used to do the shooting – but they also noted that the weapons used in the shooting were matched to previous IRA attacks.’
‘Open and shut case then, sir,’ I said. ‘Some internal squabble.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He took a moment. ‘I’m also led to believe that you were instrumental in unearthing Captain Bromley, the darkest stain we’ve had to deal with over here.’
‘It was my libido, sir.’
‘Your ... what?’ he puzzled with a frown.
‘The nice lady captain, Karen Moore, she shared an office with me, or me with her more like, but she never fluttered her eyelashes at me. That made me suspicious of her -’
‘What? Because she didn’t fancy you?’ the General asked, officers laughing.
‘Well ... yes, sir. But I could hear her on the phone, and it certainly wasn’t to her husband. I wondered if there was an accidental leak, I had no idea about Captain Bromley.’
‘Which brings in Mi6, and your ... close association with them,’ he nudged.
‘I met them first in Riyadh, sir. I was driving an Arab officer who believed that I couldn’t speak any Arabic -’
‘You speak fluent Arabic?’ he puzzled.
‘Yes, sir. But I fooled him into teaching me the basics, and after a drink he was blabbing down the phone and selling secrets, so the boys at Mi6 asked me favours.’
A major said, ‘If anyone wanted a beer in Riyadh, Wilco could deliver it by the crate. As well as porn videos, or air-con units off the back of the lorry.’
‘I’d like to ... attempt to refute such claims of my activities in Riyadh,’ I said, ‘in the absence of solid evidence.’
‘And the bare knuckle fighting?’ a colonel asked. ‘I saw you lift a guy up over your head and drop him out of the ring.’
‘What did you throw him out of the ring for?’ the General toyed.
‘I was hungry and wanted a bite, so I wanted to finish it quickly.’
‘To get to the secret Indian restaurant that no bugger told me about when I was there,’ the General said. ‘You were never disciplined for the fights?’
‘I entered the competition at the request of Mi6, because the fight promoter was the local spymaster. When I did well the spymaster kept inviting me back to his plush pad, and I listened in on his conversations. Half the senior officers – none British - were there doing cocaine, the other half were doing small boys.’
‘Jesus,’ the General let out. ‘And Mi6 had you well placed by driving them around.’
‘Yes, sir. I was not on the front line in Kuwait, so the least I could do ... was to do my bit for the war effort. I unearthed several spies.’
‘And the story of your legendary hotel bill?’ the General asked, a hint of a smile present.
‘When I first got to Riyadh, and the plush five-star hotel, I was given a quality room, and ... no one noticed or moved me to lesser quarters, sir.’
‘A hundred and sixty-eight thousand pounds, the final bill came to,’ a colonel said. ‘Bu
t was never paid by us. They had a Colonel Wilco down as having used it for six months, but we demonstrated that no one of that name existed. Don’t ever go back to Riyadh.’
They laughed.
‘And the cash prizes from the fights,’ a major nudged.
‘I used the money to buy beer for the RAF in Dhahran.’
‘I can vouch for part of that,’ another major put in. ‘The RAF were well stocked throughout with that Tiger beer stuff, and they all referred to it as being delivered free.’
Major Bradley turned his head to me. ‘How much beer did you pay for?’
I made a face. ‘About twenty grand’s worth.’
They exchanged looks.
I added, ‘I figured I’d not get it back through customs anyway. Most of it was in small used notes – a bit bulky.’
The General shook his head. ‘You spent six months in a five star hotel; booze, money, Indian food -’
‘And don’t forget the Thai massage parlour, sir,’ I added, making them laugh.
The General shook his head. ‘You’re more like Sergeant Bilko – than Wilco. Still, you won’t find any luxuries around this damn place.’ He faced Major Bradley. ‘Saturday night is a civic function, so ... why don’t the two of you attend, and we’ll do a little hearts and minds.’
‘No ... press there with cameras, sir?’ Major Bradley nudged.
‘No, that is tightly controlled, none of that lot will want their happy smiling faces in the local papers – except maybe the mayor; it would make them targets.’
I asked, ‘Are you confident, sir, that I can represent the British Army ... and put us in a good light?’
‘I am, just don’t talk about Riyadh and Thai massage ladies.’
‘Are you ... sure, sir?’ Major Bradley pressed.
‘How many of your lot could you introduce to a mayor?’ the general testily asked.
‘I ... take your meaning, sir.’
‘And I have in good authority that Wilco here is both an excellent actor and liar, much sought after by the intelligence agencies, so he can ... act nicely for the Lady Mayor and charm her as if she were an Arab spy – and convince her that SAS soldiers are much misunderstood and maligned. He can also explain the damn cows to her.’