Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  They signalled us to stand, the lads perplexed, but I stood and shouted them up, waving them forwards, Rocko next to me. When the Chinook looked like it would bounce off the waves Rocko shot me a worried look, but I just smiled, grabbed him by the arm and ran out the back with a smile and a scream.

  We hit dark grey-green water, bubbles in front of my face, and we surfaced gulping air. Turning, I could see that everyone was down, the Chinook circling, the waves taking us in, and we had landed exactly in the same spot.

  Up to my waist, I got the water out of my rifle, loaded whilst shouting orders, and then opened fire, Rocko at my side as we fired at the same targets, magazines swapped.

  ‘Cease fire! Unload!’ I called. A minute later I added, ‘On me!’

  They approached and knelt down.

  ‘All in one piece?’ I asked.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting that, you fucker,’ Swifty complained. ‘I though the damn bird was in trouble.’

  ‘There are many ways to insert, that is one of them, so long as the chopper is doing twenty-five miles an hour or less. Getting used to getting the water out? Good. On me.’

  And after cleaning the weapons we speed marched all the way back again, some complaining from Stretch and Rizzo, the Chinook touching down as we got there, and we ran aboard, soon heading north and back to Hereford, a short enough flight, the Major welcoming us off the chopper at 5pm.

  ‘Still in one piece?’ he asked.

  ‘Smurf likes to drink salt water, we discovered,’ I quipped.

  ‘Smurf, don’t drink salt water – you’ll go mad!’ the Major shouted.

  ‘Not my bleeding fault,’ Smurf grumbled.

  I led them to the hut, where we all got the salt-stained wet clothes off whilst chatting about the day’s action – sand everywhere, showers taken, the territorials sent out for fish and chips again. Dry clothes on, we sat in the Interest Room in buoyant mood, weapons cleaned thoroughly and oiled carefully, discussing the day’s events.

  At 7am Wednesday morning we were stood ready, the Chinook touching down, and the same faces ran aboard, the ramp still down as we took off and headed back down to Studland Bay, life vests issued and placed on. As we neared the coast two ropes were set up, the lads figuring out what would come next.

  Ramp down, they could see that we were still moving forwards, albeit slowly, and a Frigate came into view, many of the curious crew on board the grey ship peering up at us, a zodiac in the water and circling. Ropes out, gloves on, we made a twenty foot drop onto a gently rolling helicopter deck. All down without any broken legs, our pride intact, we scrambled over the side down the nets and into the zodiac, room enough for us all.

  With the last man in I waved the coxswain forwards, and he sped towards the same beach, flashing blue lights visible again as well as green jeeps.

  ‘Inflate life jackets!’ I shouted, and they observed me pull my chord. I saw seven inflated green life jackets. ‘When I point at you, in your pairs, jump over the side!’

  They stared back, but then got ready.

  I pointed at Rocko and Captain Moran. ‘Now!’ They hit with a splash, followed a second later by the next pair, and with just Smurf left I pointed and shouted before I went headfirst over the side, getting half the English Channel up my nose.

  Bubbles filled my ears, and I popped up like cork, gasping for air in the cold water, soon swimming, the waves higher today and taking us in, and I was soon hitting the sandy bottom. Weapon unclipped, breach cleared, I loaded and got ready, and fired twice before a wave clobbered me from behind, my weapon discharging into the water.

  Cursing, and trying to get upright, I scrambled ashore in a very undignified manner and continued firing, running up the sand with Smurf and closing in on the others.

  ‘Cease fire! Unload!’

  They unloaded and closed in on me.

  ‘Everyone here?’ I checked the damp faces. ‘Any misfires?’

  ‘No,’ Rocko said, ‘but you killed a fish I think.’

  I nodded. ‘Fucking wave hit me just as I fired, so I think I got an endangered sea horse.’

  Back at the trestle tables, the RSM smiling at us, I told the lads not to clean the weapons, we were about to get wet again, the gang moaning; it was cold today. I led them to the headland, and under the small cliffs we scrambled across the slippery flat rocks to the end, which put us beyond the breaking waves. They could see the zodiac waiting.

  ‘Follow me, swim backwards, stay together, watch each other. Clip rifles down your side.’

  I jumped in, cold water down my neck immediately, and surfaced whilst spitting out salt water, soon on my back and kicking out whilst using my arms, going backwards. I kept an eye on them, some better swimmers than others, and we covered two hundred yards, the zodiac not getting any closer.

  The air then reverberated with the sounds of a heavy helicopter, the sky darkened and a shadow appeared over us, the Chinooks ramp down, a scramble net dangling six feet into the water. It was obvious what they had to do, Slider getting up the net quickly then turning to help others, the Loadmaster not allowed to help.

  My turn came, three of us going up at a time, and Rocko helped me inside, my body weighing a tonne due to the water-logged state of my clothing, and everything was damned awkward with the life vest inflated.

  All inside, I performed a head count, a thumb up at the Loadmaster, and we climbed as he grabbed the wet netting. Banking hard, the chopper went around in a circle, coming to a hover over the zodiac, a rope hitched up and let down. I waved the lads up, Slider going first, but now with wet gloves.

  Fortunately, the rope looped off the side of the zodiac, because he slid down a little fast, feet in the zodiac and arse out of it, grabbed and pulled inside. Slider helped Smurf, who hit the water arse first, and we all made a mess of it. With the end of the rope tossed over the side of the zodiac, the chopper pulled away.

  ‘We made a mess of that,’ Captain Moran noted as the zodiac bounced over the waves, the Frigate looming.

  ‘We do what we can, how we can, wet or not,’ I said with a smile. ‘In Somalia we had to go over the side and get wet, save capsizing. Best laid plans ... mean nothing till you get there. They don’t teach you that at Sandhurst, sir.’

  He nodded, sea salt spray in his face.

  The dark shadow of the frigate covered us, another scramble net to negotiate, and Smurf slipped, hanging upside down for a minute till we lifted him upright - Smurf cursing at length. All up and over the side I performed a head count, wagging a finger at a complaining Smurf as the Chinook came back around. As we knelt, it very skilfully put two wheels down on the rolling helicopter deck, and we sprinted aboard - all inside and off in seconds.

  It had gone no more than twenty seconds when I stood and approached the ramp, motioning everyone up and into two lines. But now we were thirty feet above the white-crested waves and further out to sea. I could see Stretch peering down with some trepidation. Turning, I grabbed him under the arm and leapt, a few seconds taken to hit the water.

  Opening my eyes was essential, to see which way was up, and I swam up rather than rely purely on the life vest, bursting through the surface and getting some air just before a wave lifted and dropped me.

  ‘Sound off!’ I shouted, and called their names in sequence. ‘Swim to me, swim in!’

  It took a while to bunch up, and this time around it took ten minutes before our feet hit a sandy bottom. Up to my waist, weapon ready, we stalked ashore, soon firing and moving, firing and moving.

  ‘Stoppage!’ Rocko shouted, and tried to get his weapon to fire, but to no avail.

  ‘Unload, make safe!’ I shouted. ‘On me!’

  They closed in.

  ‘Misfires?’

  ‘Mine is fucked,’ Rocko said.

  ‘I had one misfire,’ Slider added.

  ‘Rocko, try and find any ejected live rounds,’ I told him, and he back tracked, the rest of us looking, three live rounds picked up, and Rocko figured that that was al
l of them. Slider’s ejected live round could not be found, a worry, but the territorials were due to pick up cases, and they had a metal detector, so we figured they may find it.

  We jogged down to the trestle tables, all now very sopping wet, weapons cleaned at length as the territorials headed down to clean up our mess.

  I faced the gang. ‘OK, you’ve now all got some practise of going ashore – in a variety of cold, wet and damned uncomfortable ways. Learn from it, apart from you Slider, since you should be shit hot at this stuff.’

  ‘In basic training, maybe,’ he replied. ‘After that ... fuck all getting wet.’

  Weapon’s cleaned, men checked over – and shivering a bit, I led them on the same route march to the range, but today we jogged much of it, getting there all warmed up. Problem was, as soon as we stopped we chilled.

  Since the sun had come out, I told everyone to take off shirts and hang them on the wire fence, jackets back on as we had a cup of tea, and we held a contest, ten rounds each at 500yards and then 400yards, telescopic sights claimed from the SSM and fitted.

  Captain Moran won, a reason for much light-hearted jeering of ‘The Rupert’ before he, Rocko and Slider once again had the SSM put them through their drills on four-man tactics.

  The Chinook arrived on time, tail ramp down, and we ran aboard in a hurry, soon back to Hereford, but a bit chilled. Kit changed, dry clothes on – dry from yesterday and showing salt marks, we enjoyed fish and chips and many mugs of tea before cleaning the weapons at length, the Major putting in an appearance at 5.30pm before he headed home.

  Weapons cleaned, we claimed the short range and practised pistol work for two hours, the territorials fetching us cans of beer and take-away curry, the Sand Room soon smelling of curry as we sat eating, the lads bonding, funny stories swapped - as was common for all soldiers, Rocko and Moran knowing a lot of the same faces.

  I informed them we would be up early, and with bowels emptied they bedded down in the sand, lights out just before 11pm, Rizzo snoring through the night, no sentries posted on stag.

  At 5am Thursday I opened my eyes, yawned and stretched, soon taking a pee in the hut toilets, my movements waking the others. Rizzo needed a kick to be woken.

  With no breakfast save chocolate bars and water, we got our kit on as I indicated a long walk ahead. Assembled outside the hut, I asked about any injuries, getting back nothing to worry about, and I soon led them off as the sun threatened to rise on a nice day.

  One foot in front of the other, we soon left suburban Hereford hit country roads in single file at the jog, not supposed to be on public roads with weapons displayed. Still, it was early, no one around to complain – and to report us, and I made use of several country tracks to avoid people, hitting the Brecon Beacons a few miles north of Brecon town and on public footpaths, a warm day in the offing.

  Climbing steeply, I kept up a brisk pace – some jogging attempted in suitable places, and over four hours of hard work brought us to Sennybridge Range, the support team waiting, my team sweating buckets and in need of a rest. Water was issued, the gang allowed to sit in the shade for half an hour before the SSM issued combat rations, lunch cooked in a dry ditch.

  After much stretching, more cold water, and some complaining, they took it in turns on the range, fast dropping targets, then in pairs, finally in teams advancing down the range.

  I had my team start at the control room and run forwards, simulated artillery falling, targets popping up as we ran and hit by whoever could hit them. After the second team completed the same task, we each carried an injured man – always Smurf because he was light, down the range and fired as we went, a few shots from the hip.

  Fashioning a make-do stretcher, Smurf in it again, we moved as quickly as we could down the range, stopping to engage the targets when they appeared, or getting down when the artillery came, both directions worked.

  I gave Captain Moran leadership for his team, and they started at the far end, dragging the stretcher between two men, two firing when necessary, Moran calling the shots. Overall, I was happy enough that we all knew what we were doing, and that the teams were working well with each other – should we get a job soon.

  At 5pm we handed weapons and ammo to the SSM, to be taken back in a jeep, and with the gang lined up I warned them not to whinge, soon leading them off at a steady jog back. But we had gone no more than five miles when a car nudged three of us on a tight bend, various degrees of bruising achieved, people with dead legs for fifteen minutes, the lady driver most apologetic, but driving off after a few harsh comments from the lads – but at least we had unwittingly smashed her mirror off with our bodies.

  A payphone was nearby and I called for transport, the RSM, SSM and a jeep coming for us forty-five minutes later, the RSM and SSM in their private cars.

  Back in the Interest Room we ordered fish and chips as clothing was taken off, injuries inspected, the Major returning at 7pm after he heard about the accident. I had a nasty bruise coming, Rocko had a limp and a hell of a bruise coming, Stretch out of action for the next day, his hip in a bad way.

  The SSM and the territorials brought in our weapons, so we duly cleaned them as we waited for our chips, the territorials helping out and cleaning some for us as I gave them advice on what to do.

  Friday, 7am, saw the return of the Chinook, just seven of us now - Stretch getting a lay-in in bed today, and we boarded in a well-practised routine, soon sat down and peering out the windows. We crossed the Severn Estuary and followed the coast for a while, across Bodmin Moor at low level and high speed, the south coast spotted forty minutes after take-off.

  Finding our target area, the pilot slowed and circled, ramp down, ropes deployed, and the lads got a glimpse of a black sub on the surface, men with white hats and life vests stood on the conning tower.

  Waved forwards by the Loadmaster, I grabbed the rope whilst hoping not to screw it up in front of the lads – or the Navy, or drop into the ocean and drown. Left hand, right hand, don’t look down, left leg around, right boot over and down I go, now look down. And it was a thirty foot drop at least, just one man on the sub’s deck, the wave tops looking to be damned close to that deck.

  I landed well enough, being pointed towards the conning tower, no hatches open, and after puzzling what to do I clambered up the small recessed ladder, soon scrambling over the top to face the Captain. ‘Morning, sir, thanks for the use of your sub,’ I shouted to be heard.

  ‘Give’s us something to do,’ he quipped. ‘Normally ferry the SBS, not your lot,’ he said as Slider came up over the side. They pointed me at the hatch, and I descended, clattering – not moving smoothly at all.

  I was greeted by a rating at the lower level and sent forwards bent over – my shoulders hitting into things, a chain of men directing me, wet footprints left behind for my team to follow. Sat in small mess area, we gathered and waited, the Captain coming down to us.

  ‘Just seven, not eight?’ he queried.

  ‘One was hit by a car yesterday, sir, so just seven,’ I informed our host.

  He nodded. ‘Thirty minutes to get there, just sit tight.’ And off he went.

  ‘Just like Somalia,’ Rocko mentioned, and a whooshing sound made us look up and consider our own mortality, a fear of being underwater, and did we trust the Royal Navy. Those of us who had been to Somalia recalled our thoughts about the sub.

  Called forwards eventually, we clambered up a damp ladder into bright sunlight, the ocean calm enough in the bay we found ourselves in, two small dinghies waiting on the deck, paddles inside. We stepped into the dinghies and knelt down, and I told the lads to wait when they figured we should carry the dinghies to the side.

  Crewmen gone, we waited, and the sub slipped lower with a blast of spray and air, the lads greatly concerned as it disappeared into the blackness, the waves lifting us. The water swirled for a while but settled, and we got paddling, soon working up a sweat as I directed them towards a small sandy cove.

  The waves were no
t high today, but high enough. I shouted, ‘Life jackets inflated,’ we all pulled the toggles, the jackets making movement hard as we paddled on.

  ‘Over the side?’ Swifty called from the second dinghy.

  ‘No, try and make it in dry. If you can!’ I was not hopeful.

  Starting to ride the white-crested waves as they broke, we paddled hard to keep our speed up, the dinghy lifting from the rear, and we rode it like a bucking bronco. Figuring we might make it, a wave turned us side on, the follow-up wave knocking us over and out the boat.

  I was spun around, bubbles for company, disorientated, but soon opening my eyes and swimming for the daylight. I surfaced, gulped air, and was then hammered by a wave and spun around again, but found my boots hitting sand. Stood up, I tried to swim in, but ended up surfing in as the unwelcome guest of a wave, going backwards and struggling to breathe. My shoulders eventually hit sand and I started laughing, Swifty on his knees and joining in.

  ‘That was a fuck up!’ he said. ‘Special forces, more like girl guides.’

  I eased up, soaking wet and heavy, and did a quick head count, all accounted for, the lads dragging the dinghies up the sand. I stood and took in the cove, glancing around, no one visible thankfully. ‘That, boys and girls, was a good example of how not ... to do it, which I had hoped for. Lesson learnt, go over the side next time.’

  Laughing, we deflated the dinghies and sat on them till the air was out, soon lugging them up a steep path, across a field and to a row of jeeps – one Royal Navy.

  ‘Well?’ the SSM asked. ‘You seem ... wet.’

  ‘We all capsized,’ I began. ‘But I figured we would. In Somalia we went over the side before the waves broke, and we anchored the dinghy.’

  ‘Why not do that here?’ he puzzled.

  ‘Lads needed to learn a lesson,’ I said. ‘They won’t try that again.’

  Dripping wet, we drove a few miles, the Chinook coming for us, the next stage to hand as we took off. Gloves on, we observed the side door opening, a long rope made ready, the Loadmaster peering out and down as harnesses were handed out and slipped on like underpants as we sat. O-rings and carabineers set and checked, we stood, and I was up first as we came to a hover over a zodiac bobbing up and down in the waves.