by Geoff Wolak
‘Or you can sit on your arses when it’s cold and wet outside, drink in the pub and watch TV. The choice is yours. All of you have potential, and you can all read a book, study a language, and get to the gym.
‘What you get out of being in the military is up to you, there are lots of courses available, from driving trucks to being an armourer, to being a medic, skills you can take with you when you leave.
‘In my early career ... older enlisted men told me that it was all a waste of time, and that I was better off out in Civyy Street. Wankers. There are plenty of servicemen who are in the job to get off the dole – so ignore them. Use your spare time well, not for the RAF, but for yourself. Teach yourself new skills, and then use those skills later on – even after you leave the military.
‘If you sit down the pub of an evening, and do just enough to get by, then yes – better off being a civvy. But if you have a thirst to do well, then someday soon you may be unlucky enough to be working for me; sleeping in the dirt, shitting in the dirt, and getting shot at.
‘It’s all up to you, you just need to make an effort, a year spent getting fit and studying. Right, any questions?’ I closed in, Swifty and Moran at my elbows.
‘How long do we have to serve, sir, till we can try that three-day test?’
‘Best get a good four or more years in,’ I told them. ‘You would never be considered for it before then, and there is a waiting list.’
‘And for the Externals, sir?’
‘One and the same, in that you’d have to do well on the three-day test to be an External.’
‘And you take men from all the services, sir?’
I pointed at Moran.
‘I was a captain in the Paras, applied to the SAS, but before that I tackled the three-day, did well, and Wilco pinched me away for his team. I got ninety-two percent, high for an officer.’
‘What’s the highest ever score, sir?’
‘Ninety-five,’ I said. ‘A sergeant called Rocko.’
‘And you have French soldiers, Americans as well, sir?’
‘Yes, we have two French commandos embedded with us, one American Delta Force. He did well on the three-day test.’
After ten minutes of chat the CO led us away, and to a lecture room, the Externals gathered, many with tea mugs in hand. Everyone sat, mostly facing the centre.
‘You lot left the range in Morocco for a ship,’ I teased. ‘What was wrong with that range?’
‘The heat -’
‘Getting sniped at -’
‘Mortars -’
‘Car bombs -’
‘Lovely spot,’ I told them. ‘You had sun, sand ... and I saw some of you with bucket and spade, what more do you want?’
‘Some sleep would have been nice,’ Haines quipped. ‘I’d trade that FOB in Sierra Leone for Morocco.’
‘Problem was,’ a sergeant began, ‘we couldn’t patrol out or change position, we had to sit there and take it instead of going after them.’
‘That’s what an insurgency is,’ I explained. ‘So get used to it, you may find yourselves in that same position again soon. And in a small war someplace you’d be tasked with protecting an airfield, dickers on the wire, rounds coming in.’
Moran put in, ‘If you were tasked with protecting some fly-trap airfield in Africa, it would be the same problem. You have to make do.’
‘What happened to the guys who were shot?’ a man asked.
‘One dead, one almost dead,’ I reported.
‘Fuckers dressed like police,’ the same man spat out.
‘And not for the first time,’ Swifty put in. ‘We’ve seen it before. And at the FOB on the border we found two spies in the ranks when we got there, or they may have lobbed a grenade at us. Trust no fucker.’
‘Your wounded men?’ I asked. ‘From the other operations?’
‘A few here have proud scars,’ the CO put in. ‘Getting back to full fitness. Djibouti was the worst, two men lost there. Both alive, but one lost an arm and the other lost half his gut. Luckier than the chaps on the helicopter.’
I nodded. ‘They burnt, horrible way to go.’
‘And more French helicopters going down in Morocco,’ the CO noted.
‘Yes, two. But when you operate helicopters round the clock in a sandy environment mechanical faults are an issue.’
After fifteen minutes of questions and idle chat, I asked, ‘Are there any issues I should know about, any of you ... unhappy with things other than the bad guys shooting at you?’
‘Could do with AKMs here,’ an NCO suggested. ‘Regular training.’
‘You had some?’ I puzzled.
‘MOD took them back after a month,’ the CO pointed out.
‘Typical bloody MOD,’ I quipped. ‘I’ll try and get them back,’ I told him. ‘What else?’
‘Some of us would like to have a go at advanced first aid, sir,’ a man put in. ‘We see a lot of wounds.’
‘Again, something I can arrange, but it is a shit load of study time. What I could arrange is a one-week intensive trauma programme, and that should help.’
‘Your Wolves got to practise stitching and injections, sir,’ an NCO mentioned.
‘Leave it with me, I’ll arrange something,’ I told him.
‘Many of us are qualified on the L115 or L96 sniper rifles, and they’d be useful in some of the places we seem to end up,’ an NCO put in.
I nodded. ‘Yes, but when you move position you need a short range weapon, and when you get low on ammo you pinch it off the dead – as we’ve done many times. Our AKMs are good to 800yards plus, and on the border in Morocco I was hitting men at a 1,000yards. When you get your own AKM and sights you can experiment.’
I listened to comments and gripes for half an hour, judged the mood, gave them the detail of what we had done on the border in the final days, and thanked them for their participation in Morocco - the main reason for being here today.
An hour later we arrived in Aldershot, at the Paras Depot, soon to close and to move to Colchester. We followed the signs for 1st Battalion, and then to the old hangar and small group of brick buildings that housed the Pathfinders Platoon, just thirty men with support staff.
A sergeant from the Externals recognised us, saluted and smiled, and showed us inside, and to meet the Major in charge, who managed to use a great many words to say that he was not quite sure if his men working with me was a good idea or not, leaving us all confused before we met with the Externals.
‘What’s up with your major?’ Swifty asked them.
They rolled their eyes. ‘Don’t ask.’
I began, ‘So how was the food on Fearless?’
‘We had to use our own rations, fucking Navy never shared, but the officers got a good meal.’
‘That job could have gone off better, we did fuck all,’ a man complained.
I nodded. ‘We were under French control, and half the time reacting to events rather than planning them. Still, you got a nice relaxing holiday in the sun, away from here.’
A chorus of disapproval swept around the room.
‘Could have done with a stand-up fight, not just sitting and taking it,’ a man complained. ‘Liberia was a proper fight, but this last job was car bombs and police shooting at us, rockets coming in.’
‘It’s all experience, gentlemen,’ I told them. ‘But I hear what you’re saying. And what you lot do is governed partly by my desire not to get you killed, or to piss of your boss, so ... in future give me some guidelines as to what you want to do, risks you’ll take.’
‘Fuck the major, he’s short time anyhow,’ a man said. ‘And we don’t mind risks in a stand-up fight so long as we know what’s what.’
‘What is his gripe?’ Moran asked.
‘He wants the whole platoon to deploy, not just some of us, and then with a training work-up period and support teams.’
I began, ‘How the fuck do you get a work-up period when we’re given a day’s notice to move out?’
‘E
xactly.’
‘Most of the jobs we do are a reaction to people being kidnapped,’ Moran stated. ‘Only a few are planned, and then a week’s prep at most.’
Swifty put in, a finger waved, ‘Your fucking officers in the Congo weren’t sure which way was up, or if you should have been there at all.’
‘Don’t blame us for that, they get it off the major.’
I told them, ‘I’ll have a word with London about your major, so long as you guys are keen to work with us still.’
‘All keen to get out of here now and then, not just training after training,’ a man stated.
‘Too much politics,’ a sergeant put in. ‘Move to Colchester, re-sizing or down-sizing, officers all making plans and trying to out-smart each other.’
A corporal asked, ‘So what’s up with the SAS these days? Their colonel came looking for men. They short of men?’
‘Not short, no,’ I replied. ‘But he is doing a good job of sorting out the attitude amongst the old timers.’
‘I did a year with them,’ a sergeant spat out. ‘Right fucking attitude. But I gather things are better now.’
‘They are, but still a different culture to mine.’
‘In Zambia, one lad shot the other because he was fucking the man’s wife!’ a sergeant put in.
‘That could happen in any regiment,’ Moran said.
‘Not here, our wives are all too ugly,’ a man said, making them laugh.
‘After three kids and ten stone added, none of this lot would go near my wife,’ a sergeant put in, the men laughing.
‘Any of you thinking of going Regiment?’ I asked.
‘We all think that now and then,’ a man responded. ‘Any positions with you?’
I explained, ‘For the moment we’re keeping it to two small troops, but if we get injured ... then yes. Be training a few lads in the near future, French have put together their own Echo lookalike for hostage rescue.
‘But where you can help out now and then will be back down in Sierra Leone. That old FOB will become a training centre for various groups that need some toughening up; aircrews, new young officers. You could do a month, take out patrols.’
‘It gone quiet down there?’ a man asked.
‘Yes, but they’ll always be drugged up idiots shooting at you.’
‘We’d have a go at that, we like the jungle,’ a sergeant told me.
‘Then I’ll mention it to your major, or just have London tell him.’
‘Just tell him, he has his head up his arse.’
‘Talk of us doing that map reading exercise your Wolves did,’ a man put in.
‘It’s a bitch, five days,’ Swifty put in. ‘If you get the map reading wrong ... you get no sleep. Regular SAS have adopted it.’
‘So we try and beat their scores,’ a man put in.
‘What about working with the fucking French?’ a sergeant asked.
I held my hands wide. ‘They made a mistake, they got some shit for it. Doubt they’ll make that mistake again, and they want to stay friends with us. Their enlisted men were as mad as we were, not least because they were sat in an insurgency whilst upsetting the local population.’
After half an hour we said goodbye to the major, and set off west to Gloucester, many things on my mind.
Back at base, I went for a run, but after each lap I made use of the metal bars near the barracks, pull-up and push-ups, pushing myself hard, determined to get back a better feeling of fitness.
The next morning I designed a week’s trauma first aid course, had our corporal type it up, and I sent it to Morten to refine, telling Major Bradley that it would now be a standard twice yearly course for Echo and the Externals.
Bob called at 11am, asking if I could come up to London. All of the kit from Morocco had been keenly and quickly sorted, so I told most everyone they had till Monday off, soon setting out east with MP Peter in the rain, a typical summer’s day in the UK.
Two hours later, London traffic as terrible as ever, we pulled into the MOD building. Bob had an office in the shiny new Vauxhall building, SIS official headquarters, but the MOD building was more discreet, the haunt of the hard working field agents.
In his second office, his small team gathered, tea made, and we settled.
‘All sorted after Morocco?’ he asked.
‘Kit has been sorted, weapons cleaned, men sent off on holiday till Monday.’
‘They deserve a rest, they did well,’ Bob noted. ‘A high body count, the man who ordered the Paris attacks killed, so Paris is happy, the French public happy – but they do think it was mostly their men.’
I smiled. ‘Who cares. We got the story straight in our papers.’
‘Indeed, more good publicity. And we seem to have smoothed things over with the French Intel community, much praise of your actions out there.’ He checked his notes. ‘I met with the JIC yesterday, a lengthy meeting, and I know what was said or asked for, so you don’t need to update me.’
‘Did you bug the meeting I had with them?’ I teased.
‘No need,’ he quipped. ‘Right, point one, Sierra Leone. All branches of the MOD are keen, JIC keen, so that will go ahead quickly -’
‘Don’t ... decorate the fucking place, keep it basic. Have a base at the airport, then the candidates travel out, live rough.’
‘And directing staff and support staff?’
‘They get some practise of live conditions. I spoke to the Pathfinders, and they’re keen. You could give the instructors camp beds, a small canteen maybe, showers, but the candidates should rough it. My Pathfinder Externals will lead patrols and teach, because I can’t be there all the time.’
He made a note. ‘And 2 Squadron?’
‘Same, but training should be done by a few of mine, a few regular SAS, some old “E” Squadron lads. I could have at least two of mine there for courses, and I would attend when you don’t have other things for me to do. Oh, you know about Wisky and Toby?’
‘Yes, good men and suitable, so we’ll make use of them.’
‘Make use of them in Sierra Leone as well.’
He made a note.
‘And find out what’s happening with the Pathfinders, their major is a right pain in the arse.’
‘Lot’s of politics in the Paras at the moment, a big re-organisation. Is he ... an obstacle?’
‘He is, so give him a nudge.’
Bob made a note. ‘How’s the men’s attitude, about the French, and what happened?’
‘They’re OK, none plotting to kill any French officers, none giving Henri or Jacque any shit. But they may be wary on the next job.’
‘So will we,’ Bob assured me. ‘You have an outline course for promising young officers and aircrews?’
‘I will do in a few days, all in my head at the moment.’
‘And the next intake of Wolves?’
‘I would refine the course a little, but the last lot turned out OK. I’d have them in Morocco and Sierra Leone studying, not in the UK.’
‘Colonel Rawlson put six men through that final Wolves exercise, and three failed to finish, one sprained ankle, so only two finished. He was not impressed.’
‘It’s a tough course if you get the map reading wrong, no sleep.’
‘And Sasha’s team?’
‘They sing songs in Russian, they swear in Russian, they drive Russian trucks and use any Russian kit we can get hold of, and they use the ranges, so they’re getting the skills. They don’t just sit around.’
‘And in Morocco?’ Bob asked.
‘They all did fine, no complaining.’
‘And if we wanted to send Sasha and the team back into Africa?’
‘They may not hold up under close scrutiny, their Russian.’
‘We have a legend for them, an obscure unit that was based in the south, their families from the Caucuses or Kazakhstan, but white Russian people.’
‘If the legend holds up, then fine, use them. Same for the rest of the Wolves. On-the-job training is t
he best kind of training, and they won’t get better just by training after training.’
‘Morale good within Echo..?’
‘Solid, they love it. Like me, they all need their heads examined.’
‘Anything you need?’ Bob asked.
‘2 Squadron need AKML rifles, same for the Pathfinders, a dozen each, and we need a few more for when the Wolves come visit.’
Bob made a note. ‘They’re cheap enough, all second hand anyhow. Last batch were Hungarian I think. Still, you have a bigger budget, MOD keen for the young officers and aircrew to be trained, so lots more ammo and supplies.’
‘Do you worry, Bob, that this training takes me and the lads away from your core desires for us?’
‘You’re sat there available for jobs when they come along, and the extra budget helps, and it helps that you do more than just sit in barracks. If you’re in Sierra Leone training others then you’re also practising yourselves, which is better than being stuck in GL4.’
‘You are indeed a wise leader,’ I quipped.
He eased back. ‘Could you see ... Sasha’s team being part of Echo?’
‘I doubt they’d pass the fitness tests, but I could push them towards those tests. As far as the Echo lads are concerned, Sasha and his team are good lads, they have no issues. But there is a big gap in experience between them.’
‘But you could construct courses, here and abroad, that would fill that gap, rather than have Sasha’s team just train in GL4.’
‘Sierra Leone would be a good start point, jungle patrols. Sasha is shit hot in the jungle.’
‘I could have them there in a week,’ Bob offered.
‘Do so, just a few Army regulars for support and logistics, and I’ll make the dangers seem more ... dangerous.’
‘It still is a dangerous spot,’ Bob’s assistant put in. ‘Gunmen, and old ordnance.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, but no large incursions.’
‘None that we know about,’ the same man quipped. ‘Things change quickly down there. How long before the current head of the Army wants top job?’
Again I nodded. ‘Three to four weeks down there, and the team will be shit hot in the jungle. I’d then give them an exercise in Mali, and we keep going till they’re up to speed. But I might include Rawlson in Sierra Leone. He could send volunteers for two weeks and out, same effect.’