by Geoff Wolak
‘We’re going to sit up here and watch that happen?’ Moran asked.
‘You’re an officer,’ I pointed out. ‘Loyal servant, and someone who knows that an order is an order.’
‘Since when have you stuck to orders,’ Rizzo quipped.
‘Look,’ I began. ‘Whoever fires the first shot, us or the French, those hostages will be dead meat – unless we can find some angle here. And eight of us ... trying to take that village ... and get the hostages out safely?’ I scrambled back down shaking my head.
An hour later, and ten gunmen drove off north, which I reported to Major Ducat. Seeing, and hearing a plane fly over, I figured it part of some French recon, and I tried to figure what their plan would be.
As the day grew warm, Moran tallied fighters in the village at thirty-five seen, and I reported that fact. But it was the unseen ones that was a concern.
The guys took it in turns to observe and to count gunmen, Slider noting that gunmen visited a small house at the edge of the village south, then a small house at the northern edge, Rizzo wondering if they were brothels – small brothels.
Dusk came on, the temperature dropped, and we set a rotation, one hour each. At 2am, Smurf came off his stag and found me, waking me.
‘What is it?’ I asked, yawning.
‘A jeep drove south with its lights out, came back ten minutes later, then did that north, same jeep, same men.’
‘They’re checking the area for French sneaking up, and maybe they’ve been tipped off already.’
When Slider reported a similar deal at 3am, I got on the sat phone. It was answered by Ducat, so I wondered when he slept.
‘Wilco here, sir. We’re seeing strange movements, jeeps driving off with no lights on, south and north, then returning ten or fifteen minutes later, as if there are sentries posted and are being rotated.’
‘It would be normal for them to have such men positioned, yes.’
‘If you are planning a raid, sir, keep those sentries in mind. And ... would you like us to offer sniper support?’
‘No decision has been taken on that matter. Let me know if anything else changes.’ And he abruptly hung up.
Rocko, on stag, then reported RPGs. So what were men with RPGs doing moving around at 4am?
I called the Major.
‘Wilco?’ came a sleepy voice.
‘Yes, sir, problem.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I think the French are planning a raid, maybe at dawn – an hour or two from now, but it looks like the boys below are getting ready for them.’
‘The French are being very cagey about it, so ... yes, you might be right.’
‘They could get a warm welcome, sir.’
‘They have two hundred commandos, helicopters, fixed wing, so ... I’d say they know what they’re doing and have factored that in. Keep me posted.’
After the call, I stood staring out at the vast expanses before me as the dawn fought to make an appearance.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Swifty asked, handing me a tea.
‘Fucking French are going to raid that village, two hundred commandos, we sit tight and watch, and the hostages get wasted. And I’m sure that the gunmen know the French are coming.’
‘Bit of a fuck up, yeah,’ Swifty noted as I sipped the tea. ‘But we have orders. And if we go down there, the French may shoot at us by mistake, or drop bombs on us – they have warplanes here.’
I nodded, staring at the amber glow to the east. Hearing helicopters on the breeze, we ran up to the OP, everyone joining us.
‘Vehicles,’ Moran shouted. ‘Both roads, lots of them.’
Pop, pop, pop reached us.
‘Mortars,’ several people said, and we observed smoke engulf the village.
A piercing scream, and two jets shot past below us, distracting us whilst two came head on, and slammed bombs into the cliff below us, horrendous bangs issued, the ground shaking. As we looked up we could read the lettering on the French jets as they passed overhead they were that close.
‘Fuck!’ was let out by a few of the guys as the sounds of helicopters grew stronger, soon a line of Pumas seen approaching from the south at tree-top height, the jets screeching past again.
Pop, pop, pop, and more smoke enveloped the village, few fighters seen running around below. The vehicles seemed to have sped up, and now raced towards the village from both sides, open top jeeps with GPMGs fitted, forward firing.
As we observed, the jeeps reaching the southern end were engulfed in smoke, the blast reaching us a few seconds later.
‘Mines in the road!’ Rizzo shouted, two jeeps destroyed, the road blocked, and a split second later the same was repeated to the north.
‘RPG!’ Rizzo shouted. ‘There.’ And an RPG rocket hit a jeep, setting it alight.
Cracks of the air reached us, outgoing and incoming fire as the Pumas reached the village, our eyes glued to the action unfolding below. The first Puma flared, sand thrown up around it, but was hit by an RPG fired from west of it, not from the village. It spun and bucked, and slammed right into the trailing Puma, both hitting the desert on their sides.
I felt sick, and we exchanged horrified looks as men scrambled out from the wrecked Pumas. With a sandstorm blown up by the trailing Pumas, one landed unhindered and rescued four men, lifting off quickly and heading south, GPMGs firing out of doors.
‘They’re leaving!’ Rizzo shouted, and we stared down, not believing our eyes, one helicopter burning now, many jeeps burning north and south, French commandos seen running back along the road, vehicles turning around.
When my phone trilled, everyone stared at it. I scrambled down the rock and answered it, all eyes on me.
‘Wilco here.’
‘It is Major Ducat.’ There can a pause. ‘Report.’
‘Your men are leaving, sir. There were mines in the road, four jeeps blown up, sentries with RPGs north and south, and men with RPGs beyond the area with crops. One Puma was hit by an RPG, and it collided with the following Puma, both down, four men rescued. Sir, they knew you were coming.’
‘As is often the way,’ he commented, and I wanted to reach down the phone and punch him out.
The guys called out to me.
‘Hold on, sir,’ and I scrambled back up the rock.
‘Those are French soldiers, taken hostage,’ Rizzo shouted.
I lifted the phone. ‘Sir, looks like maybe eight of your men from the helicopter have been taken alive, we can see them.’
‘Keep me informed of developments, please.’ He hung up.
‘Developments?’ I repeated as I put the phone down, all eyes on me. ‘That fuck of a French Major doesn’t give a shit about his men.’
‘What do we do?’ Moran asked.
I sighed loudly. ‘I had an idea when I figured the French may attack.’
‘And...’ they nudged.
I took in their expectant faces. ‘If those hostages are still alive, they’ll probably be moved, and be on the open road. If we see that, we report the convoy, and our lot or the French go for the convoy.’
‘They’ll probably move them after dark tonight,’ Moran suggested. ‘We could report it.’
‘That’s as much as we can do. Set up a rotation, any movement of hostages and I want to know.’
I scrambled back down, as did many of the lads, and I called the Major.
‘Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir. The French raid was a disaster, they lost a lot of men, two helicopters, six jeeps or more, and the gunmen have French hostages from the downed helicopters.’
‘Hell.’
‘What are our orders, sir?’
‘Eyes on, for now.’
‘Sir, they’ll move the hostages soon, a convoy, and that convoy will be vulnerable. Can you get choppers off Ark Royal and a team ready, sir?’
‘To stop a vehicle convoy? That could be doable. I’ll get back to you. Stand by.’ I faced an expectant Captain Moran. ‘That French Major ... he went
ahead with the raid knowing that the gunmen would probably be tipped off.’
‘Political pressure for a result,’ Moran suggested.
‘Learn from this, sir, because politics and sound military sense don’t go well together. They don’t teach that at Sandhurst.’
An hour later, and Rizzo shouted for me, everyone scrambling up the rock to see what was up. ‘They’re getting the hostages ready to move!’
‘In daylight?’ a few people challenged.
‘Roads north and south are blocked,’ I said. ‘Just that road to the east.’
‘We report it?’ Moran asked.
I stared down the hill to the village. ‘No, we do our jobs.’
‘You what?’ Swifty hissed.
‘That convoy will have limited men, no chance to fire off RPG’s, no heavy weapons, all sat inside and unable to fire out effectively, maybe twenty men,’ I said, and I took in their faces.
‘We take the fuckers,’ Rizzo encouraged.
‘We have one chance, one only, and we need to make a choice now, or those French soldiers down there are dead meat, as well as the hostages. We ambush the convoy from above.’ I took in the faces. ‘Smurf, you up for it?’
‘If you say it’s doable, yes.’
‘Rocko?’
‘What we came for, and I wanna kill some of those bastards down there.’
‘Slider?’
‘I’m in.’
‘Stretch?’
‘I’m in.’
I faced Swifty. ‘Well?’
‘If it goes wrong, we’re in the shit, we have no orders.’
‘I’ll take that responsibility.’ I faced Moran. ‘You’re the troop Captain, sir, if you say no ... then it’s no.’
All eyes were on Moran. ‘Breaking orders in my first week,’ he wistfully noted. He took a deep breath. ‘Those hostages ... are our concern, because ... because we’re here and we can help, and it was always our intention – the SAS I mean – to organise some sort of rescue, that has not altered, politics aside.
‘If we can get the hostages, without getting them killed, then I’m for it.’ He smiled. ‘But if it’s a fuck up then I’ll have the shortest service with you on record, court martialled after just one week.’
Smurf said, ‘Wilco punched Rizzo an hour after he arrived, so you don’t have the record, sir,’ and they laughed.
‘On me,’ I said, and we scrambled down the rock, grabbed gear and legged it quickly down a goat trail to the north whilst being very un-stealthy and unprofessional, heading for that east road below us.
I maintained a fast pace where the track was OK, and jumped onto sandy slopes a few times, tearing down them at a dangerous speed.
Above a bend in the road, and with a view towards the village of maybe a quarter mile, I grouped the men and we knelt, all panting.
‘Rocko, Slider, across the road to that ditch 100yards away, silencers on, rags on, stay hidden, we’ll drive them towards you. Go!’
The guys ran down the scree slope and across the road.
‘Rizzo, that outcrop on the right, hit them head on, but only after we open fire. Stop the lead vehicle. Go!’
‘Smurf, right here, get hidden behind the rocks, no silencer, automatic fire, blast the men at the front of the convoy, but let about three vehicles pass first. Get ready.’
Smurf adopted the rocks and took out magazines.
‘Stretch, back up fifty yards, top cover. Go!’
He scrambled back up the shale.
‘Swifty, left twenty yards, those rocks, hit the tail end. Go! Captain, with me here,’ and I led him to a crag, soon inside, magazines out.
‘Radio check. Slider, you there?’
‘Hear you.’
‘Rizzo?’
‘Clear signal.’
‘Smurf?
‘Clear signal.’
‘Swifty?’
‘Got you.’
‘Stretch?’
‘A bit broken.’
‘Listen up: aim at the drivers and gunmen, don’t risk hitting hostages, don’t spray it around, single well-aimed shots. Smurf, if you see a gunman and maybe there’s a hostage behind, don’t shoot.
‘Right, this is the plan, whenever they get here, and if they come this way. Smurf opens up on the third vehicle, then we all fire at the drivers. They should run towards Rocko and Slider, who can get them from behind. Get read, stay hidden, standby.’
We waited.
Ten minutes later, Stretch came on. ‘Single vehicle approaching, fighters in the back.’
‘Stay down, let it pass, stay hidden, but get ready.’
The vehicle could be heard as I hunkered down with Moran, and it passed us by, heading around a bend and out of sight.
‘That’s good,’ I noted.
‘What is?’ Moran asked.
‘That vehicle is scouting ahead, reporting back, and it’ll report the damn road clear.’
We waited, the day warming up, and I sipped my water, my mouth dry.
I turned my head to Moran. ‘Nervous, sir?’
‘Resolute ... is how I will choose to describe it. I want to rescue those hostages, and not just to get a good name.’
‘Good for you, sir,’ I commended with a nod, but he knew I was taking the piss.
‘Convoy!’ came Stretch’s excited voice. ‘I can see ... four jeeps at the front, men in the back of some, two lorries, four jeeps following.’
I pressed my radio button. ‘Swifty, Stretch, you go for the last few jeeps, make those shots count. Smurf, jeeps three and four, Rizzo – one and two. Lorries are down to me and Captain Moran. Slider – hit anyone your side that gets out of a vehicle. Standby.’
‘One minute,’ Stretch announced, and again I found my mouth dry.
‘Is it OK to be nervous?’ Moran asked me, our heads down.
‘I hope so, sir, because I’m nervous.’
Vehicles could now be heard, and I caught a glimpse of white Toyota pickups a moment before I slammed a gloved fist down on a scorpion. The vehicles were not moving quickly, and the first three jeeps eased past, suddenly a loud burst of fire to my right as Smurf opened up.
Easing up, I had the driver and passenger of the fourth vehicle in my sights by accident and loosed off four rounds, doing Smurf’s job for him as all hell was let loose. I held my rifle steady as the first lorry came into my sights, four rounds into the cab as it trundled past, and as the tailgate came into view I hit a gunman readying his weapon. Seeing a face peering out, I hit the man through the canvas top, knocking him forwards.
Smurf had already gone through a magazine and swapped as I eased up and over a rock, the second lorry slowing, and I hit the driver and passenger three times each, the first rounds being to break the glass, brass shells bouncing off me and the rocks near me as Moran fired quickly.
Turning hard left, cracks permeating the air, I fired at the windscreen of a jeep as yet not targeted, getting the driver as men jumped out the back and out of view.
The rocks around me splintered, and I knew I was hit. Turning hard right, I could see men hiding behind jeeps and I took aim, careful single shots through my telescopic sight. I hit a knee, a foot, a shoulder, then a head.
‘I’m hit,’ came Moran’s voice.
I glanced at him. ‘Keep firing!’
He lifted his rifle and aimed at the tailing jeeps, and I could see blood on his trousers before I swung back, the ground beneath me spitting up dust and rocks. I took aim, but as I did the man was hit from behind. Finding a second man, he too was hit from behind, and the jeeps seemed to be clear. I swung left, firing at distant movement.
‘Wilco, it’s Stretch. There’s a group in a gully.’
‘Slider,’ I called. ‘Work your way along. Stretch, try and get higher and around. Rizzo, Smurf, forwards, double tap each body.’
I lifted up and jumped down the scree slope, soon to the road and knelt, seeing Rizzo run forwards, Smurf just a few feet away on my right. I ran to the lorry cab and peered in
, hitting each body once before running to the rear. Jumping up, I got a view of the hostages lying down, two dead fighters.
Spinning quickly, I put a round into the slumped driver and passenger of the second lorry before running around it and to the tail. There I knelt in the shade of the lorry, hitting prone bodies down the road, rounds cracking overhead, Swifty and Stretch in something of a shooting-match with however was in that gully.
Running forwards, I stopped and spun around, aiming into the back of the lorry just as a bearded face popped up. I took the back of his head off, ran forwards and jumped up, seeing a second fighter hunkering down. Stepping to the right, I lifted my rifle above my head and aimed level, putting two rounds into the man.
The fire ceased.
‘This is Slider, got them I think, can’t see any other fuckers.’
I knelt and pressed my radio button. ‘Stretch, what can you see?’
‘No fucker moving.’
‘Stay there, cover us, everyone else on me.’ I unclipped the tail gate and let it fall, aiming inside. Both fighters were dead, so I grabbed wrists and dropped the men unceremoniously onto the road with a thud.
‘Hostages, are you OK, anyone injured?’ I shouted up.
They dared to raise they faces, some showing a recent beating.
‘Is anyone shot?’
‘Here,’ came a voice.
‘Come down,’ I told the man, a woman applying pressure to his leg wound. ‘We’re British soldiers.’
I moved around to the second vehicle, the lads in all round defence, and unclipped it, taking aim, and finding a wounded fighter. I dragged him and dropped him, a round through his chest, the second fighter dragged out.
‘Anyone wounded, anyone shot?’
‘This man here,’ came a British accent.
‘Bring him down, quickly.’
I turned to find four French soldiers, hands tied, their faces badly beaten, Smurf cutting them free. ‘You speak English?’
‘Some,’ came back.
‘Get weapons off the dead fighters!’ I shouted, and they limped off to find weapons. Back around the second lorry’s tailgate I found Swifty knelt down and applying a field dressing to a leg wound.
A grey haired man scrambled down. ‘I’m the Deputy Ambassador.’
‘Glad you made it, sir. Are you hurt?’