by Geoff Wolak
‘How so?’
‘That each job we do will result in smiling faces and a good newspaper headline.’
‘Bad way to think, yes. We’ve been lucky up to now, some good successes racked up, way more than anyone else, so it’s easy to get complacent about it. But you’re different to the likes of Rizzo, you have a conscience, and you think a great deal. Down side is that stuff like this hurts.’
‘My ribs hurt as well as my head, big fat lady landed on me.’
‘Have them checked out when we get back.’
‘French have named their new unit Echo, be over in a week.’
‘Will they pinch away Henri and Jacque?’ the Major puzzled.
‘Nothing said so far, sir.’
The four hours passed quickly, few sleeping, all wary of aircraft safety, and touching down in the dark and the rain was welcome, cool rain on my face as we clambered down the steps and to the buses. Crates aboard, escort picked up at the gate, and we headed back, little said, none of the usual laughter or jokes.
The roads back were quiet, and back at base the crates were unloaded and stacked, and we left them there, an MP to watch over them, everyone off to bed. I had a quick wash, microwave burgers with Swifty, a can of beer shared, and we hit our beds.
The dawn woke me, but I was in no mood to get up, and I stared at the ceiling for a while. Finally up, I found Swifty already up.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ I asked him as he handed me a brew.
‘Woke up feeling OK, so got a move on.’
TV turned on, we sat with our brews and watched the breakfast news, Algiers featuring for ten minutes, the burnt out plane filmed, crying families at Paris airport, mention that British SAS had been on standby.
‘What happened to “D” Squadron?’ Swifty idly asked.
‘Fuck knows. Maybe their plane turned around.’ I sighed. ‘Best get the kit sorted.’
An hour later we had most of the kit back where it should be, and I sat tackling paperwork with the Major and Moran.
O’Leary stepped in. ‘Got some more bad news to add to the pile.’ We looked up and waited. ‘Bateman is now registered as brain dead. They’ll turn the machine off soon.’
I rubbed my face and eased back. ‘Maybe we need a team trip to fucking Disneyland.’
‘Could do with some good news,’ Moran noted.
My sat phone trilled. ‘I got a signal indoors in Algiers as well,’ I said before answering it. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob. Some of the survivors, now in Paris, are praising your efforts, and the French have confirmed the detail, be hitting the British news soon, just so that you know.’
‘OK. Any political bollocks going on?’
‘No one to blame but the Algerians for lax security, and a few fingers have been pointed that way.’
‘What happened to “D” Squadron?’
‘Their plane was diverted to Malaga, got a fault, so they’re on a beach with a cold beer till they return.’
‘Sounds good.’
Phone away, I said, ‘French press, and the live hostages, are reporting what we did, getting them out – English soldiers. And “D” Squadron are in Malaga, Spain, cold beer in hand.’
That evening I called my nurse, and she met me later for a romantic meal. I even had a jacket on, Swifty taking the piss as I left.
Even though I wanted to, I could not tell her what happened in Algiers, but I got a little sympathy for bust ribs. The evening went well, I was relaxed, we got on great, and we arranged to meet on the Friday night.
Back at the house, Swifty said, ‘Well?’
‘Good meal, good chat, seeing her Friday night.’
‘Taking it slow, ain’t you? Not like you.’
‘Must be getting old.’
‘Big three-oh soon,’ he teased.
I tried running in the morning but my ribs cut short that idea, so I just walked.
Tomo and Nicholson stopped and walked next to me. ‘You OK, Boss?’
‘Ribs are bust, so I’m walking. So long as I don’t breathe I’m fine.’
‘How’d you bust your ribs?’ Tomo asked.
‘I tried to lift a twenty stone lady out of that burning plane. She landed on me.’
‘Fuck, Boss, normally Bongo under a big fat bird.’
I smiled. ‘He seeing that bird we met at the incident?’
‘She darns his socks, so he says,’ Nicholson put in as we walked.
‘I met my nurse last night, see her again Friday,’ I told them. ‘Good looking girl, but – you know – quality and not just a shag.’
‘They’re the ones to avoid, Boss,’ Tomo cheekily told me before they ran off.
After breakfast I had the teams split, all the facilities soon in use, Sasha training his team on a mounted Duska, tasked with someday soon training the rest of the lads in its use.
After lunch our new toy arrived on loan, a Russian armoured personnel carrier from the museum down at Bovington in Dorset. Sasha had driven one every day for six months in his early career, and he began teaching his own lads, the rest of us to get some lessons, as well as regulars down from Credenhill. In addition to the noisy beast, we also took charge of an extra twenty four AKLM rifles and sights.
The next day I slipped into a tight space, and I drove the most nasty piece of crap vehicle I had ever encountered. By the end of the day no one had a good word for it, but a few had mastered it – sort of. I would not be getting back into the pig of a machine.
Over the weekend I settled into a steady relationship, we spent a great deal of time together, and it was a great antidote to the stresses of the job recently. We finally had sex on the Sunday afternoon, a quicky near a lake. And so far I had not revealed my scars, wondering if she would run at the sight of them.
Monday morning saw the barracks being cleaned and checked, ammo levels checked, the French on their way to us. Two unused brick buildings had been patched up and decorated, nice quarters for ten extra men created, and two of the empty houses had seen extra beds placed in them so that three men could have a room upstairs, two men making use of the lounge as a bedroom. We could accommodate seventy visitors easily, another twelve rooms free in the cabins.
The French Echo detachment arrived by green RAF bus from Brize Norton, and we put the enlisted men in the barracks, sergeants in a house, officers in a house, support staff in the brick buildings, enough space.
Kit down, Moran gave a tour of the base – explaining the facilities, which did not take long, a meal in the canteen for our guests before a briefing by me. And the French would have varying meal times to the rest of us, some overlap. Henri and Jacque would be fully utilised as translators and directing staff, Moran to be heavily involved.
At the briefing, Moran translating, I gave them the detail of our standard monthly tests, as well as pistol and range average scores, a benchmark from which to judge themselves against us.
‘Gentlemen, I have planned many games and tests, and some hard training of course. And, when you have completed that, we will move to Sierra Leone for more games and tests. Since you are all familiar with the deserts in places like Morocco, there’s no need to go there and train.
‘Now, the greatest benefit we can offer you ... is to go through each rescue we took part in and to explain it all. That way you learn from what we did right, and what we could have done better.
‘You will also spend time in what we call The Factory, practising infiltration, but you will also be locked in a prison – and have to find a way out. Your guards will be actual Russian soldiers that now work for us.
‘We have limited time, and may be called away, so you will study most evenings whilst you are here, some weekends free to enjoy the fine English countryside – in the rain.’
They laughed.
‘So, support staff, our Intel and Signals will chat to you. Please go to their Portakabin.’ Eight men walked out. ‘Major Liban, you and your captains need to attend many of these lessons, since as field commander
you will be making plans.’
He nodded.
I grabbed a pile of black and white aerial photos and handed them out, men sat in pairs, paper and pens handed out. ‘OK, you have photos of an enemy camp. Draw a map, and label what you think buildings are there for, and then label distances as best you can. You have one hour. Begin.’
After the evening meal - myself and Moran sat in with them, Henri and Jacque sat chatting to old friends - we went through our standard kit, and I issued tourniquets. Webbing was adjusted by each man, and we introduced them to the bandoliers, every man getting one to take home.
At 9pm, Major Bradley was back, and the French officers met us in our small officers’ mess, a batman from Brize Norton on duty.
‘Any criticism about Algiers?’ I asked Major Liban as we stood with drinks in hand.
He shrugged. ‘Nothing we could do, we had not even got our kit out. The Algerians should have had more police.’
I nodded.
My Major put in, ‘The hijackers were Algerian separatists?’
‘Yes, of course. They want to embarrass Paris,’ Henri’s boss responded. ‘And now the French media know what you did to get people out, so some ray of sunshine, no.’
‘A very small one,’ I agreed. ‘So how will you work if there is another hostage situation ... in say Mauritania?’
‘They are still considering this, the GIGN wanting jobs as well.’
‘That we understand,’ I said. ‘We compete with regular SAS.’
Liban began, ‘They will give us a small job when we are ready, then to see. If successful, more jobs, on and on, but just in the sand.’
‘As it was with us,’ I pointed out. ‘I started with just three men and a job in Somalia for your government.’
‘I remember it, yes.’
‘Why did they not consider you for it?’ I pressed.
‘We train for small team operations, yes, but Paris likes to get involved every step – and they like big teams.’
‘Interference,’ Major Bradley complained.
‘Yes, of course,’ Liban agreed with a shrug.
‘So you will be a test model,’ I told Liban, getting a nod. ‘The first job is the important one. But maybe we can help with that.’
Major Bradley shot me a questioning look.
‘There are French hostages in Liberia, sir.’
‘Ah,’ Bradley let out.
Liban was puzzled.
I explained, ‘We will have a jungle training base in Sierra Leone, just across the border to Liberia, and if we hear of French hostages we can assist you. We cover you, you get the hostages, Paris doesn’t know our part.’
Liban smiled widely. ‘The fraternity begins.’ We clinked glasses. ‘May all of our political leaders get a nasty disease ... and die slowly.’ We laughed before sipping our drinks.
In the morning we issued the French with an AKM each, and as Sasha trained my lads on the Duska and APC, Moran, Henri and Jacque drilled our guests on the AKM. The French were familiar with all the world’s weapons, quite expert, but would now get to know the AKM intimately as I tackled paperwork with the Major and O’Leary.
After lunch I spent an hour on a map reading exercise, this one in Sierra Leone, and I planned out four patrols based on similar routes taken previously, the candidates having to make sketches at certain places, a 24hr OP to be set-up on a bridge at the border. The detail was faxed down to British Army HQ in Sierra Leone.
British infantry officers and NCO’s had taken up residence, two Army sniper instructors down there on rotation, stores stacked up ready, and next Monday would see “B” Squadron sending two troops for seven days of exercises based on my outline plan, a plan that came with a warning of the dangers present.
Old boys Whisky and Toby had been interviewed, first by the Major, then by us both, and with Toby helping in Stores, Whisky – our survival expert - would be dispatched to Sierra Leone for a month. We’d join him there in a few weeks with the French.
At 4pm I observed as the French, officers included, all ran and fired with the AKM, knelt and fired, stripped and cleaned, each man expending more than three hundred rounds today.
At 7pm the French met in the briefing room, Captain Harris giving the same map reading puzzles that had been keenly tackled by the Wolves, Moran assisting. Despite being the best the French had, they fell for the same tricks as the Wolves, Moran shouting at them.
In the morning, the rain hammering down sideways, I called back our RAF aerial photographic expert. He was retired and now living in Oxford, so he was easy to get hold of. He also spoke some French, and as I observed he swore at their interpretations, making them laugh as Echo was up the road in the swimming pool.
By 5pm, our retired instructor thanked, the French could make maps from photographs and measure distances accurately, and they knew the difference between a flower bed and a body of men marching – when photographed from 20,000ft.
The next morning offered a clear sky and no wind, Para Pete called, the Skyvan arriving, chutes arriving from Brize Norton as the senior Echo lads informed the French of our HALO bag technique.
Tone altimeters were fitted to our guests, radios on, chutes checked over, and up the first four went, Rocko and Rizzo to jump alongside them from 15,000ft. The French shuffled the heavy bag to the rear, linked shoulders and tumbled out, a good position held. As I peered up through my binoculars the team broke in sequence and pulled, and all landed in the north field next to the bag, a successful first test.
Back to us, the men were jubilant, praising the bag and the technique; they had one-up on the GIGN, who rarely parachuted into action.
By 7pm all had tried the drop, all of our guests being free-fall parachute experts anyhow, our Skyvan sent off for some rest, our RAF Skyvan pilots still an issue.
Thursday saw the French on the pistol ranges and in the Killing House, set exercises, and a great many rounds expended, one minor injury to record in the files. They had two lads who could match Tomo in pistol work, so we held a contest, Tomo just ahead by a few points, the French threatening to beat him soon – and complaining of a home advantage.
Evening work on Thursday was route planning, a trick route, none of the French realising the trick – and getting shouted at. Their way of thinking was to do as asked, not to refuse, so we were trying to teach them to say “non”.
Friday morning I went through the Somali rescue with them, discussing politics, planning, and the inherent risks. They were amazed at the brazen attitude we had shown on the job.
‘Gentlemen, if you see an opportunity ... you take it. We saw an opportunity and made use of it, but we also took risks. And gentlemen, if you are behind the lines, you stop the gunmen in a jeep, kill them, take their jeep and you have transport. On all jobs we always steal jeeps and use them.’
Friday afternoon, and I went through the operation in Sierra Leone, day by day, mission by mission, the risks, the planning, the problems and the politics. After I had outlined the attack into Liberia they referred to me as “Captain Crazy Fuck”.
Friday night would be a meal out, a function room booked in a hotel, the French, Moran, Henri and Jacque, Major Bradley and our SIGINT team, the TA major – who spoke French, Rocko, Rizzo, Stretch and Slider, Slider speaking some French oddly enough. One of Sasha’s team spoke good French, and so would attend. I would be absent, a hot date to attend.
On the Saturday afternoon the French, in teams of four, were tasked with planning a rescue on a make-believe camp that looked a lot like the camp up in Catterick.
I stood in front of them as they peered at grainy black and white photographs and a badly photocopied map – deliberately grainy. ‘Gentlemen, first we get eyes-on.’ Moran translated. ‘And in many cases, when we see what the camp or village looks like, we swear loudly at the people who sent us – because things are never as described.
‘So, rule number one: think for yourselves. You have an objective – to get the hostages out, but there is no point g
etting five hostages out if ten are killed and four soldiers killed. Why bother?
‘Maybe there are more hostages than you were told, or maybe you see the hostages being executed – and you pull out. First, eyes on, then brain in gear. And fuck the man up the line. You are there, he is not.
‘So, 24hrs eyes on. Can you see the hostages? Do they get exercise time, do they use a toilet outside, can you see them inside a building? How many guards, what patrol times, are there jeep patrols, are there dog patrols, which guards are lazy, which guards do their jobs?
‘From your OP, what is a good route in, where is the cover, where is the fall back RV, where is a good place for snipers to be to cover you, what is their fallback position?
‘What would be a good diversion? In Liberia I could see a town next to the enemy camp, and we knew that local men did drink and drugs, and that they were all heavily armed. So we got behind a shack and fired an RPG at the enemy camp. Who got the blame? Not us.
‘In the Congo, I arranged for shots to sound out nearby, and the Russians believed it was local men behaving like idiots, not us. Look for that decoy, maybe set a car on fire on a busy road. If there are dog patrols, catch local dogs by feeding them, tie them up, muzzle them, drop them inside the camp and untie them. The other dogs will go crazy. Or tie them to a tree outside, get them barking at the camp dogs, it will drive the guards nuts.
‘Now, we use silencers, but you can always hear a rifle round if you are awake and alert. We use rags to hide muzzle flashes, and in the past we have used decoys to mask the sound of us firing.
‘If you make it look like a local drunk villager is shooting ... the guards will shoot back, and they don’t notice you firing and killing certain men. Gentlemen, the frontal assault is always the wrong idea. Be sneaky.’
They made their plans over an hour, hushed conversations going on.
‘OK, who considered the power lines into the camp?’
They exchanged looks; none had.
‘Go back and look again at the photos. You can cut the power whilst making it look like a fallen tree, or you can cut power at a key moment, say 3am when it is raining. They will not bother to go out till the morning.’