by Geoff Wolak
After a cup of tea in the small transit lounge the PM drove in with his aides, our pistols put in a locked metal box for the flight, and we took off in a small jet often used for the Royal Flight, heading to Morocco, our first stop.
We landed in unseasonably chilly air and some rain, pistols now under shoulders, and my fake ‘Rizzo’ moustache was glued in place, the moustache courtesy of Bob’s people, the glue good for a few hours. We all had sunglasses on, ID badges on lapels to signify just who were to the local authorities, and I wore a light brown cap as well. Over my shoulder I carried my advanced first aid kit.
The PM had spent virtually the whole flight taking papers from one red box, reading them, then placing them in another red box, ten minutes spent chatting to us.
At the embassy we left the PM and stood near the door with the two Marines on duty, taking the piss out of them, the PM heading out an hour later, a conference venue, some meeting on counter-terrorist cooperation and regional development. It went off without bombs nor deadly assassins bothering us as we stood in the cool breeze of the air conditioners.
My team ate in the embassy that evening, shadowing the PM to a dinner date, where we stood in line of sight near the stairs, back to the embassy around 11pm, the PM off to bed.
Up early, we reclaimed our aircraft and headed to Mauritania, where the threat level had been increased recently. Leaving the aircraft we were alert, my moustache firmly glued in place, some ribbing coming from the lads. The drive to the embassy passed without incident, and after an hour we drove towards a conference venue, two hours spent stood in the air con.
Leaving the meeting, I was at the front, Smurf carrying my first aid kit. We had made it almost to the door when a man caught my attention, his head down, the man staring at us from under his eyebrows.
His hand moved, a knife revealed, and I took two large fast steps, a kick to his chest knocking him backwards and head first into a glass door, which failed to break.
‘Heads up!’
I drew my pistol and backed up, all faces now on the man – and his knife, local police rushing over.
Pistols drawn, we nudged the PM out and into the cars, soon back at the embassy safe and sound.
‘What happened?’ he asked me, sounding calm.
‘Man with a knife, sir.’
‘You chose not to shoot him ... for which I am grateful, such things cause me more problems than if he had stabbed me.’
‘Just a knife, sir. Best to avoid shooting locals, makes for a bad newspaper headline.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, so well done, quietly dealt with.’ And off he went.
Swifty closed in. ‘Rizzo would have plugged the guy with ten rounds, and I would have drawn my weapon.’ He waited.
‘Just a knife, and if we had shot him ... his local tribe would kick off – and may have gone on to harm pale British tourists on the beach.’
The rest of the tour threw up no surprises, and we landed back at 3am Sunday morning, thanked by the PM – who always managed to look awake and alert, the lads and myself soon driving down the M4 in a minibus, the lads asleep. I sat watching the cold drain race diagonally across the window, and thinking.
The following Sunday I called Bob Staines at home.
‘Bob, I was thinking of a training exercise, weather is OK this next week, get Slider and Rocko involved, keep them sharp.’
‘I’m for it, yes, definitely.’
‘Might need you to call their bosses again, but I’ll call them now and see what they’re up to.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Various inserts on various terrains, so try and get me a small warship, a sub would be good as well, Chinook from 7 Squadron. I want the team to practice going ashore in various ways, as well as working together – for when you do finally give us a job to do.’
‘There may be a job soon, similar to Somalia.’
‘Well there you go then, use that as an excuse, get me the permissions, I’ll talk to my CO and chat to you Monday. Wilco out.’
I called Rocko at home.
‘Hello?’ came a sleepy voice, and it was noon.
‘Rocko, it’s Wilco, you awake?’
‘Just about, late night piss-up. What’s up?’
‘Got a training exercise, followed by a job, you in?’
‘Fuck yeah. When?’
‘Get here Monday around 4pm, your boss will get a call.’
‘4pm, Monday. What do I bring?’
‘Usual kit, no deserts to play in.’
‘Monday then.’
I called Slider, finding an equally sleepy voice, and a keen volunteer, Swifty called next, and definitely not wanting to be left out.
Monday morning I cornered the Major, the RSM and the Colonel like I owned the place, but I was very polite about it.
I faced the Major. ‘Got anything urgent for me this week, sir ?’
‘Nothing on the books, why?’
‘Bob Staines may have a job for me, sir, a few weeks down the line, so I’ve knocked together a training scenario for the same lads, four days – various beach inserts, various terrain. But ... but there is room for a few extra lads, save on costs as well if more come along with us.’
‘Yes, definitely, grab a handful,’ the Major said. ‘Damn good idea. What’ll you need?’
‘Chinook from 7 Squadron for three days, a few hours a day, parachutes – sea drop, Boat Troop with a zodiac, weapons and ammo.’
‘Sea drop?’ the Colonel queried. ‘We don’t do many, and most men may only ever do one in their careers, weather permitting.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir, but it may become relevant soon.’
‘OK, I’ll sanction it,’ he agreed after a moment’s thought.
‘I’d like the RSM and SSM helping out, a dozen lads from any regiment, jeeps, rifles and ammo.’
The RSM said, ‘We can rope in a few territorials for that.’
‘I could do with the Sennybridge range for a day,’ I told the RSM.
‘The current course starts today and ends Wednesday morning, no one on it then till the Friday morning,’ he explained. ‘Staff get a day off midweek.’
‘Then I’ll use it Thursday all day,’ I told everyone, heads nodded. ‘Rocko and Slider will be here tonight, and I’d like to use the Killing House and 25yard range tonight.’
‘I’ll stay behind,’ the RSM offered. ‘Rope in a few lads and the armoury.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I offered the RSM, knowing it would make him smile and shake his head.
‘Pick some lads and let me know,’ the Major suggested. ‘And does MI6 have a definite job coming up soon?’
‘Maybe, sir, another rescue hinted at. But don’t worry, if it goes off well and without any fuck-ups we’ll put it down as a “D” Squadron rescue,’ I said, making them laugh.
Finding Rizzo, Stretch and Smurf, I asked if they were up for a four-day exercise, chance of joining me on my next job, something of a stampede to sign up. I figured that two teams of four would be best, so I asked the Major for Captain Moran.
The Major explained that Moran and a fresh intake of officer candidates were doing map reading tests and logistics, but then said, ‘What the hell,’ and had him dragged in. ‘Should know how to read a damn map.’
Bob called me back, and he had a Frigate with a bored crew – in Southampton, and could have a sub on the Friday morning, so long as it was close to Falmouth. I agreed the deal, and soon asked the RSM to request the Chinook for Friday early as well. He was in touch with 7 Squadron, so was Bob, the pilots thinking that something big was up – and duly asking if something big was up.
Captain Moran turned up looking perplexed. ‘I’m assigned to you?’ he puzzled.
‘Yes, sir, I requested you.’ His eyes widened. ‘I have a four day exercise, maybe a naughty job overseas at the end of it – which you’re not down for, not yet anyway.’
‘I haven’t passed selection yet, and you’ve dragged me off a key stage,’ he not
ed, sounding worried.
‘Tough shit, sir, and I think you can read a map. Besides, they don’t care, and you won’t be marked down. So relax, there’s a good officer.’
I fetched him webbing and an AKM, empty magazines, and got him a poncho and sleeping bag from stores, plus a small backpack, the lads would not be lugging Bergens. Handing him to Stretch, I asked that they go through stripping and cleaning, an hour’s pistol work on the short range. A perplexed looking captain was left in Stretch’s hands as I planned things out with the SSM and RSM.
Rocko arrived on time, Slider soon after, and over a cup of tea they admitted that they had met up for a curry and a beer, and I figured they would. The RSM allocated them a room – till I said we’d use the sand pit, another room for a bunch of local territorial SAS lads from 21st Newport branch down in Raglan Barracks, the lads unemployed and keen to help out, two lads down from Birmingham.
I greeted them all, and all were in awe of me, keen to help out, which helped get things done since I had always figured that the rank and file would be trying to trip me up not assist me.
With everyone involved now assembled – tea mugs in hand and the Major listening in, I outlined the exercises, but said that it was flexible, the lads surprised by some of the activities I had in mind.
Many of us ate together after the territorials fetched fish and chips, and with grease wiped off fingers I placed Rizzo in charge of the Killing House with the SSM, and to work us all through various exercises.
The rubber walls and wooden buttresses were soon getting shot up, doors kicked in or blasted open with shotguns. Rocko, Captain Moran and Slider were newcomers to this but they did well, keen and willing to get it right. As they were in the Killing House, I was on the range with Swifty, Stretch and Smurf and some of the territorials, practising pistol work, fast drawing, left hand firing, popping up and firing, forward roll and firing.
With an emphasis on hostage rescue, we placed dummies and wooden targets, made the territorials to be hostages - tied up, and practised using pin hole lenses and listening devices, counting the hostage takers – the X-rays, and we did not finish till midnight.
I thanked everyone, made sure my team got fed then bedded down in the “Sand Room” - as it was now called, in sleeping bags, ready for a 7am pickup. And no one had bothered to clear out the sand yet, or the dried out poop.
As we bedded down, the RSM drove a few lads south, the police to meet them.
At 6am my seven lads were all up, hexamine stoves going, the gang chatting away as they made breakfast, but the regular hut toilets were used, no need to practice in the sand.
The Chinook loudly announced its arrival and we jogged out, live ammo in pouches, weapons unloaded, Captain Moran looking a bit lost. The chopper took us south east and to Brize Norton, a short flight, and we were soon at the near-empty Parachute School and collecting strange looks, the weather unsuitable for parachuting – the wind a little too strong, and it was raining over the drop zone.
The Para School’s Squadron Leader greeted me with a smile as I saluted. ‘Wilco, it’s been dull around here with you gone, but you crop up in conversation often enough – and in the papers.’ We shook.
‘I’ll try not to create any paperwork for you, sir. Now, have you orders regarding our drop today?’
‘It’s too windy, and it’s raining at Studland Bay.’
I nodded. ‘We go anyhow, sir.’
‘I can’t sanction that, you know- ’
I held up a hand. ‘I anticipated this, sir, when I saw the weather this morning. So, two things. First, we have a live mission lined up -’ I lied. ‘- and that has a coastal drop, regardless of the weather, and second – I have an Air Commodore lined up ready to shout down the phone at you.’
He did not look happy, but nodded. ‘You lot have to practise these things, and we had some high level calls yesterday, so this live op seems serious. Just don’t wreck my chutes.’
‘Just some sand and salt water, sir,’ I said with a grin.
‘Which wrecks chutes!’ he noted.
It took little more than forty-five minutes to rig up the static lines in the Chinook, and they had been forewarned. Fuel topped up, helicopter checked over, chutes and reserves on - rifles clipped in place down the right side, we waddled towards the waiting Chinook, the territorials helping out.
We all sat where told to and faced each other, arms across the reserve chutes, life vests tapped and checked – or we would certainly drown. It was quiet enough with helmets on, sign language used.
With an additional RAF Loadmaster on board, plus two instructors from the parachute school, we took off and headed due south through the light rain, heading towards the RSM and hoping that everything was set. This was stretching a few laws and regulations, a bit of a worry, but I figured that Bob Staines would deal with any hassle.
All too quickly we were motioned to stand, to turn, a hand on the shoulder in front – Captain Moran now looking more confident and Rocko was in his element, the gang moving forwards, static lines clipped on and tested by the parachute instructors, tail ramp down with a roar, the countryside shooting past as we climbed towards 800ft.
We could all see a dark ocean, small white crests visible, and we nudged slowly forwards, lines left and right, and the Chinook seemed to be increasing speed.
The green light came on and my heart skipped a beat; I both loved this, and was terrified of it, at the same time and I smiled, caught by a few people – looking more confident than I felt.
The next few seconds were a blur, I was out and falling – my stomach in my throat, a tug and it fell quiet, the ocean coming up way faster than I would have liked, two zodiacs in view. I turned my chute into the wind, or I would have hit sand and not water, then remembered the life vest in time and pulled the toggle with a hiss.
Only seconds remained, and I hit the water quickly after releasing my main chute, soon underwater, the damn water freezing, but I popped back up and gulped air, wrestling with my harness and reserve and finally getting them off before panic set in, leaving them to float as waves slapped me in the face.
Rifle unclipped whilst submerged, I swam in, little more than a few strokes till I could stand up in the surf, dark green men noticed around me, flashing blue lights down the beach some 500yards. Lifting my AKM high I pulled the slide back a few times, struggling to stay upright, and loaded a magazine after shaking the water out of it.
Safety off, weapon prone, standing up to my knees in the waves, cracks sounded out, and we fired at man-targets placed by the RSM in the sand dunes – my barrel steaming, two rounds at each target from all of us, magazines swapped.
We charged up the beach, kneeling and firing. ‘Moving, firing, close in.’ I halted, our objective for now achieved. ‘Cease fire! Unload!’ I unloaded and stood. ‘On me!’
They jogged across. We were all sopping wet, sand on knees and boots. ‘Everyone here?’ I asked, counting wet helmets. ‘No one drowned?’
Smurf was coughing. ‘No, but I swallowed half the damn ocean.’
‘Try not to next time. OK, what you have just done ... was a helicopter drop into water, and someday soon we may do that for real. Important factors ... a chute that opens -’ They laughed. ‘- and getting the life vest inflated before you hit. Also, getting your underwater rifle water free – from the breech and barrel, and firing it. Any misfires?’
They all glanced at each other. ‘OK, the AK will fire when wet, better than most rifles, but can also blow up in your face, so ... water out, slide back a few times, water out the mag, then load and fire – and pray.’
I glanced at the zodiacs as they collected up the chutes and reserves. ‘OK, we now have a ten mile march to a firing range. On me.’
I led them down the closed-off beach, past the signs intended for summer tourists, and to the RSM and his jeeps, the police further down the road, two trestle tables laid out, cleaning kit available. Helmets off and handed in, we began stripping weapons that had sa
lt water and sand in places where you were not supposed to get salt water and sand.
The RSM said with a smile, ‘Locals were told there’s an unexploded bomb from the last war. But no nudists on the beach today anyhow, not in this weather.’
Fifteen minutes later, and a lad from Boat Troop who knew the way took up the lead. In our pairs, we speed-marched past Swanage and towards the range near Bovington Camp, a jeep following us, the rest going on ahead.
Nearing the range we were sweating, but in good spirits and partly dried out, met by very welcome cups of tea, so we stood around chatting for ten minutes, chocolate bars downed.
I faced the RSM. ‘What do you reckon our chances would be if there had been hostiles on the beach?’
He made a face. ‘Speed is the key, I guess, and you were down quickly and ashore quickly, so ... if the bad guys took six minutes to get organised you would have had them. Doing at night would be better.’
‘Was hard enough to get permission for a daylight drop, in this weather.’ I faced Captain Moran. ‘Done a water drop before, sir?’
‘No, but I was scheduled to do one a few times. They used to be standard, but not anymore. First time from a Chinook, although the RAF Regiment have done that a few times I hear.’
I gave the SSM a nudge, and he took Slider and Rocko, Captain Moran and Stretch onto the range, and they advanced and withdrew as a team, a great many rounds fired.
Myself, Rizzo, Swifty and Smurf were up next, and I took the lead, making comments as we went, shouting orders. That done, the weather cooperated with a dark sky and steady rain – which was perfect, so we held a competition, best scores at 500yards and down, and Rocko beat me by a point, Rizzo third, Moran fourth, the Chinook coming for us on time.
Weapons unloaded, we boarded the Chinook whilst soaking wet – soft green caps and not helmets this time, the RSM smiling – he knew what was coming next. Life vests were handed out, everyone told to inflate them inside the chopper, an odd move. We took off with the tail down, the two instructors still with us and grinning, and we saw a dark ocean and white crests after just a minute.