by Geoff Wolak
‘You would leave for Kenya in five days,’ he said with an apologetic look.
I adopted a curious frown. ‘Bob, can I ... pick from any service?’
‘Uh ... yes, if they’re suitable. And willing.’
‘I have an idea then.’
The Minister added, ‘You’d be under French control -’
‘Like fuck,’ I said, the minister recoiling, the Major and the Colonel smirking. ‘You want me – and my inflated reputation, this is how it will go. Captain Harris and his team are on the French ship, signals set up. Captain Tosh is on the French tub, satellite Comms to me, Comms back to here. The French request and liaise with Captain Tosh and Harris, who tell me what to do and how to do it.’ I held up my palms. ‘Simple.’
The Minister controlled himself. ‘Fine. Get your team ready.’ He stood, the Colonel and Bob walking him back to the helicopter.
We all sat after they had left the room.
‘Good work,’ the Major commended me. ‘Fucking suited upstart.’
When Bob returned with the Colonel, we all stood, but then sat again when waved down.
The Colonel faced me. ‘Is it doable, given what you know of the locals?’
‘Getting thirty miles inland means dropping a few curious goat herders, sir.’ They exchanged looks. ‘Then it’s a recon, but we’d not do that whilst silently killing the guards. So ... no killing of the guards, no recon. And after we kill the guards we have an hour or two before the alarm is raised, so it will be tight.’
‘And if the alarm is raised?’ the Colonel nudged.
‘As I said, sir, goat herders with an hour’s training. We’d have to fight.’
‘Some of those boys have been fighting for years,’ Bob cautioned. ‘And they were in a kind of army.’
I nodded at him. ‘Some good boys, yes.’
The Major faced me. ‘We have a list of “E” Squadron lads, some good ones, and the major nominated to be in charge of the squadron will be here later.’
‘There were two men that attended my scenario. I’d like them, rather than someone I’ve never met.’
They were surprised. The Major and the Colonel exchanged looks. ‘OK,’ the Major offered. ‘If this was your show, how would you get ready?’
‘Can we get the RSM?’ I requested, and he was sent for. He sat with a curious expression, paper and pen ready. ‘First, can I have the contact details for two lads that did my scenario, Slider and Rocko, Marines and Paras, no idea what their real names are. Second, that old hut at the end of the row, disused. Can you move the beds out, white wash the windows, move out the old lockers, and put in eight inches of sand – dry sand, and some rocks.
‘Next, get me a warm air blower for that room, a dozen combat ration boxes, and two goats.’
‘Goats?’ the RSM repeated.
‘Goats, man!’ the Major clarified. ‘You know, animals of the desert.’
‘Oh, right,’ the RSM puzzled with a deep frown. ‘Goats. How forgetful of me, I requisition goats all the time.’
With a grin, I said, ‘And I’ll need several sets of desert clothing, a variety of sizes, mostly large, and some cloth – light brown, desert camouflage.’
With the Colonel smiling, the RSM headed out with some urgency.
‘What else will you need?’ the Major asked.
‘Some luck, sir, and some French naval types that know what they’re doing.’
Bob’s line manager said, ‘You’ll acclimatise first?’
‘Best we can, at least to get in the mood of it, start cooking and shitting in the sand.’
‘Excellent planning,’ the Major commended, the Colonel seconding that before we broke up. ‘I see some officer potential in you.’
I got a call through to the Paras depot, the operator surprised that is was me. Rocko, aka Morris Selbourne, was to call me back, and he did after I got a request into the Marines base at Deal, Kent.
‘That you, Rocko?’
‘Yeah, that Wilco? This something about the scenario?’
‘Indirectly. Listen, I have a job going, in Africa, small select team, excellent chance of getting your bollocks shot off. Could you be here tonight, and be gone two weeks?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Got a family?’
‘Ex-wife, and a kid that I don’t see.’
‘So ... up for a little job?’
‘My CO would have -’
‘No, your CO would be told that you’re needed, and that’s that. Question is, are you keen and up for it?
‘A shooting war?’
‘If we were spotted, yes, we’d shoot and kill.’
‘You’re heading it up?’
‘I am.’
‘Where you go, trouble follows,’ he quipped.
‘That’s true, very true. So ... doing anything interesting this week?’
There was a long pause. ‘Fuck all, got my RSM on my back – he wants me to march properly, the tosser.’
‘So instead of marching, you could be shooting people.’
‘You can swing it with my CO?’
‘Within the hour.’
‘OK, I’m in.’
‘Pack the basics, you’ll be given desert clothing. Good boots. Expect a call soon. And ... see you when you get here. Oh, and this is top secret, chat about it and you get a prison cell all to yourself.’
I turned to see Bob stood waiting with his line manager. ‘Rocko is in, get the MOD to call his CO ... right now. I want him here tonight.’
They got to it as I called Slider, aka Peter Johansen. His CO intercepted the call.
‘The famous Wilco, no less. What can we do for you?’
‘I’d like to talk to your chap Slider.’
‘We use proper names and ranks here.’
‘OK, sir, let me make this simple. I have a general stood next to me, the Defence Minister in a side room. Find me Slider, or you chat to the general, or the Defence Minister, or both.’
There came a very unhappy, ‘Wait on the line.’
So I waited, a full six minutes.
‘Hello?’
‘That Slider, or Sergeant Johansen even?’
‘Yes. You Wilco, from the training scenario.’
‘I am, and ... I have you in mind for a job overseas for a few weeks, an excellent chance of getting yourself killed.’
‘Oh. My CO ain’t a happy bunny -’
‘If you agree, the Defence Minister signs the paper, your CO gets a call, you get here tonight.’
‘Tonight!’
‘Got a family, any dependents.’
‘Not any more, no.’
‘Then the question is ... would you like to go, since I need someone with your skills, someone I can count on – as you demonstrated.’
‘If I go, my CO will kill me.’
‘Leave him to us. Are you up for it?’
‘Yeah, if I can go without a court martial.’
‘Pack the essentials, inform your CO that he’ll get a call from the MOD shortly, you’ll be given desert clothing.’
‘Desert? Well, better than the rain here.’
‘And this is top secret, not even your CO can know, and you would get that court martial. Stand ready.’ I hung up.
I knocked on Captain Tosh’s door. ‘Come in!’
I entered and saluted. ‘You heard, sir?’
‘Heard what?’
‘That would be a no then. I have a job in Somalia, top level political request, joint op with the French. I’ve nominated you as liaison on the French warship, Comms officer with Captain Harris.’
He stared up. ‘Oh.’
‘A few days, then we’re off. Can you go see Captain Harris, and ... pack a toothbrush, sir.’
He stood, his face a picture. ‘Uh ... yeah.’
‘And not a word to anyone, sir. Say you’re off to Brighton on holiday.’
Swifty turned up an hour later, full kit, desert kit ready, so I went to stores. They had been warned by the RSM, and duly issued me kit.
‘No blood stains,’ they told me. ‘Bugger to get out in the washer.’ I gave them the finger.
A line of lads shovelled sand from where it lay after some construction work, and the beds were removed from the hut in question, the lockers moved next door. It was grey concrete floor anyhow, so sand was not an issue. With a warm air blower rattling away, the lads laid out the sand for me, rocks brought in and piled up, a few loose bricks.
Fetching a tea in the ‘Planning Room Designate’, I sat with Captain Harris and his signals lady as they pored over maps.
‘Is it thirty miles?’ I idly enquired.
‘Depends where the hostages are. Fact is, we have an idea from London, but they keep moving them.’
I nodded. ‘That would be sensible, yes.’
Bob’s boss had called his boss, who called the MOD, and the MOD had called various people, and then they had called the people I needed calling, so Slider and Rocko were duly released, and apparently on their way – angry commanding officers and drill instructing RSMs aside.
At 5pm I checked the sand pit and found it warm, the top layer of sand already dry. I placed down rocks in a circle with Swifty, the inside big enough for four men to sleep. In a corner I piled high the sand, and area for toilet use, one of the lads splashing something white onto the windows. We were almost set. I drove home and fetched what I wanted, and popped into a shop on the way back in my desert pinks, getting that ‘Oh fuck he’s SAS’ stare from several people. I smiled politely.
At 6pm Rocko drove in, expected at the gate, and was shown to the sand pit, a bit perplexed to say the least as he stood on the sand. He had a moustache similar to Rizzo, a square face and solid jaw, and looked like someone I’d not want to mess with.
‘Your new home,’ I told him. ‘Dump that kit next door, or leave it in your car would be better. We’ll issue you desert kit.’
He soon changed, an AKM and pistol issued and being checked as Slider drove in. Slider was tall and thin, almost blonde-haired, a pleasant face till he concentrated and frowned, then he looked like a serial killer on the loose.
And an hour later the four of us sat inside the stone circle, cooking combat rations over hexamine stoves, laughing and joking about our surreal desert setting in rural Herefordshire, those wondering past the hut and peering in and thinking us mad.
The Major popped in, and took in the room, smiling widely. ‘All set I see.’
‘Be someone on stag all night, sir,’ I said as I stood. ‘In case we come under attack.’
‘Excellent planning, Wilco,’ he commended, and he welcomed Rocko and Slider before he headed off home to his wife. Smurf and Rizzo popped in, sat down in the sand and chatting for a while, Rizzo and Rocko having served in the same unit – Paras Pathfinders, many people known and recalled, and slagged off.
I gave the new lads a sheet of basic Arabic words, some local inflections, and they practised for an hour. ‘Stop, get down, hands up, fuck off!’
At 11pm I knocked the hut lights off. ‘OK, Rocko, hour and half stag, then Slider, then Swifty, then me. I like early stag. Guy on stag stays awake, get used to it, your lives depend on it. Rifles to be cradled, guy on stag is on stag - weapon ready. Piss and shit in that corner with the high sand, dig a hole, we’re breaking with SAS tradition – because we ain’t carrying it.’
We had warm desert jackets, because at night the warm desert was damned cold, and got comfy inside brown ponchos.
Swifty woke me, a restful night in my poncho on warm soft sand.
‘Not a bad bed,’ I whispered as I eased up, weapon ready, pretend firing position taken.
After a leisurely breakfast of combat rations, chocolate rollos and tea, we headed out, weapons in hand, a training room selected, tables arranged.
‘Swifty, you’re in charge till I’m back, need to check a few things. Guys, strip, clean, assemble – till your fingers hurt, then do it some more.’
In desert garb with weapon slung I caught a lot of looks, even more so than usual, soon sat having a tea with Captain’s Harris and Tosh, maps and intel gone over, two new faces from Intel each with sat phones.
‘Got some new intel from the Americans,’ they offered, the new faces from Intel in awe of me, which was annoying. They were like children at Christmas. ‘Radio intercepts place the hostages in an old prison.’
They showed me a map, then a satellite image. The local gunmen seemed to be playing football on the prison’s parade ground – and it looked more like an old fort than a prison, something the French Foreign Legion might have built in the 1850s.
One of the new Intel faces fetched out a photo taken of that very same prison a decade earlier, and even then it was falling down, holes in the walls. Back at the map, I could see waste ground to the south - the approach course, a road, a wide side road to the prison running north, the centre of the small town being about 500yards north of the prison, at a cross roads.
‘We’ll approach from the south, sniper cover in this waste ground, two men forwards to have a sneak peek two or three hours before dawn.’ I faced Captain Tosh. ‘The French helicopters will take about twenty minutes to get off and get to that waste ground, sir.’ He nodded. ‘When you see the French, tell their pilots that the waste ground is their primary landing spot – at this stage.’
At the armoury I asked for pistols with silencers, and they had a variety of fittings, so I grabbed two Barretas with long silencers, and fifty 9mm rounds. Collecting the lads, we claimed the empty pistol range, and fired off a few rounds each. The silencers were OK, but you’d still hear them on a quiet night. We tried rags over the top, then double rags over the end, and that was as good as it was going to get.
The SBS had MP5s with better silencers, but I wanted the lads to have AKMs and pistols, so these would have to do. Swifty and myself would carry pistols and silencers, as well as Brownings, the other lads the usual Brownings.
We spent two hours on the range with the pistols, the new lads getting in plenty of practise, and with the weather clearing we organised transport across to Ross-on-Wye range, a few of the regulars lads keen to help out and to drive us there. At the range, bracketed by civilian houses at the rear, we sniped at targets at 500yards, the regular lads equipped with field telescopes and calling out the scores.
With silencers fitted, the locals must have considered the range empty. Seeing us in desert colours on moist green grass would have had the locals scratching their heads, especially the nice old lady who always complained about automatic fire – which we always denied.
I moved the lads forwards to 300yards, and again we sniped at static targets. When a rabbit choose to commit suicide, and feed on the rise of the butts, Rocko and Slider laid off bets then tried to hit it, Rocko slicing the poor bunny in half. If any rabbits threatened us in Somalia, we’d be OK, since we had practised our defence tactics against dangerous bunnies.
At 100yards we practised turning, raising the weapon and firing, the scores tallied, and Swifty drew level with me, finally some pistol work at 50yards and beyond, aiming high.
Back in the sand pit we found two tethered goats, and fed them chocolate Rolos as we cooked our evening meal. I again had the lads practise their key words in Arabic, over and over till they had it down.
At 9pm my secret weapon turned up, Magsee, just back from somewhere interesting and suitably tanned. He gave us all a lecture on desert hygiene, cooking, making a camp, and then he showed us how to slaughter one of the goats, the warm blood collected, and we each had a good drink of the metallic tasting blood.
Magsee chopped up the goat as its companion considered its fate, made a fire – window opened, and we sat roasting bits of it, soon eating the flesh, which was tasty enough – but needed some sauce. He bedded down with us, a stag rotation set up again, and in the morning he peeded into a hole in the sand like the rest of us.
Since he had been to Somalia and Ethiopia, he extended his stay and gave us a talk in one of the training rooms, cups of tea in
hand; local customs, how they lived, the geo-politics, funny stories of his time there. It was all good stuff.
The Major came in and thanked him and I walked him out, Magsee wishing me luck. With a clear yet cold day offered, I took the lads back to Ross-on-Wye range, this time to snipe at targets just as big as a human head, at 400yards and 300yards.
After a tea break, tea in flasks, I told the lads in the butts what I wanted, and my little team advanced in formation down the range from 300yards. Targets popped up, several, and we opened up whilst kneeling, Swifty aiming to our rear, all round observation taken, moving on then engaging more targets, magazine swaps called out at random by me.
We practised advancing and firing in covering pairs, followed by withdrawing and firing in covering pairs. As a team we stripped and cleaned weapons, and repeated the exercise till we lost the light, soon back on the sand.
Bob Staines came and found us at 6pm, hexamine fires going, the one surviving goat frowned at by our Intel liaison, as well as the blood-stained sand. ‘We’d like you to fly out tomorrow. That OK?’ he asked as he tried not to get sand in his nice shoes.
‘We’re ready,’ I offered him, not bothering to get up, my dinner simmering.
‘Transport here at 9am, private plane down to Mombasa. Kind of.’
‘Kind of?’ I repeated, the lads now keenly attentive and looking up.
‘Cargo plane, a few diplomats on board, enough seats. It’s discrete.’
‘In civilian dress?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘You’ll not see any locals anywhere, French Pumas will take you out to their carrier from the airfield. As you are is fine. Weapons need to be in a locked metal crate.’
I nodded; that was normal. ‘You coming along?’ I teased.
‘Would love to, but I’ll be in London monitoring things.’
He wished us well, and would be at RAF Northolt in the morning to see us off.
With Bob gone, Rocko said, ‘You trust these Intel boys?’
I took a moment. ‘I try and get involved in the planning, that way fewer surprises, and fewer cock-ups. Swifty and myself, we’ve worked with Bob for a while, many jobs, especially in Northern Ireland. Bob’s heart is in the right place, he seems OK. Would he send us on a one way trip ... no.’ I shook my head.