by Geoff Wolak
‘They lack a planning skill, but we’re working on that. They’re used to senior officers making plans.’
On Monday morning we made use of our three-tonne trucks and our Land Rovers, and the assigned directing staff drove the French and their kit up to The Factory, just about an hour’s drive, the French soon claiming camp beds, the first six puzzled men being marched into Stalag Luft 13 after being searched.
I stood with them in the damp wooden hut as they took in their new surroundings, Henri translating. ‘Gentlemen, in order to be expert at getting into a place and getting the hostages out ... you must be expert at getting out yourself. You have all seen films about the last war, so think like prisoners.
‘Test the walls and windows of this hut, observe the guards without being seen doing so, note the patrol times, which guards are alert, which are lazy, when are there dog patrols. Observe the fence, think about how you may get over it.
‘Take your time, don’t upset the guards, they will stop your food, so act like model prisoners ... or go hungry. And good luck.’
We left them to it, the door slammed shut by one of Sasha’s team dressed authentically like a Russian soldier, suitably armed with a dated AK47.
Back across the camp, Sergeant Crab was assisting the directing staff, the French split in two, one group going over fences, one tackling doors and windows. I sat in the gate house, chatting to the permanent team now here, 1st Battalion British Paras now on the list of people who made use of it, along with 2 Squadron RAF Regiment, and now the Marines, several members of the Army Sniper School helping out here with Bob’s civilian instructors, time-served house burglars.
At 5pm a helicopter put down on the suitably labelled heli-pad, Bob and his assistant stepping out.
‘Not like you to use a helicopter,’ I noted as I shook his hand, his ride idling it engines.
‘Time constraints; they want me working, not stuck in traffic.’
I led him into the canteen, no one in it yet save the serving staff. I fetched my guests a tea. ‘Come to see how the French are doing?’
‘Partly, partly to chat to Colonel Rawlson.’
‘Problems with Rawlson?’
‘Problem ... is that ... powerful forces have moved ... to the point that the police have successfully argued for their own counter-terrorist unit.’
‘More than just a few snipers...’ I nudged.
‘Much more. And that may take jobs away from the regular SAS.’
‘And create some friction,’ I noted. ‘Who will train this police force?’
‘That ... is the question, and this is the setting,’ Bob pointed out.
I stared back at him. ‘If I train them, Rawlson will be pissy.’
‘He has already expressed a ... lack of desire in slitting his own throat, as he put it.’
‘There’s the SBS,’ I pointed out.
‘And they may contribute, yes.’
‘But your first choice would be Echo?’ I asked.
‘For many it would be, yes, today, not so much a year ago when the wrangling was going on. You see ... your comments to the MOD about maturing people through risk-taking has had an effect. The police now accept that an officer who has not seen any action, nor shot anyone, lacks that maturity.’
‘If British coppers went down to Sierra Leone, the press would have a go at them.’
‘Hence the need for secrecy, something we can trust you with, not the regulars.’
I nodded. Making a face, I said, ‘I could get a few trained officers some action without anyone knowing, provided they’re not killed down there. And here we can get them to a good standard of hostage work.’
‘If there was a serious situation, the SAS would still be involved, but for a man with a shotgun locked in his bedroom they don’t want to call out the SAS.’
‘But I would guess that the police would want full ... control of operations.’
He nodded and sipped his tea. ‘They don’t like the SAS, they have long memories, and the SAS always were disrespectful towards the police. That and the fact that many SAS got away without being prosecuted for domestic crimes, some troopers boasting to the police that they could get away with rape.’
‘I heard some of the stories, yes. If the question is ... train them here, then yes – I’ll help, and explain it to Rawlson if he finds out. For now, let’s keep it quiet.’
‘Be a few senior police officers down here tomorrow, a look around and a chat.’
‘Not in uniform I hope.’
‘I’ll ask them not to. And you’re off to Sierra Leone Sunday night with the French, a look at the border.’
I nodded. ‘We’ll have more than enough men to deal with any issues.’
‘You rate the French team?’
‘They’re fit and tough, expert in weapons, but they’re used to being told what to do. Map reading and planning is not where it should be, but they’ll get there. Greatest benefit is me detailing the jobs we did, why and how, so that they learn from it.’
Bob nodded, and sipped his tea.
‘Bob, don’t ever ask Echo to take a domestic terrorist operation off the regulars, that’s their territory, and they’re good at it.’
‘We understand that.’
‘Going after that plane upset Rawlson as well,’ I informed them.
‘SAS have never stormed a plane, they have no claims about successes there, GIGN had just the one almost-successful raid.’
I smiled. ‘Their door entry in Marseille was a bit lively, so I heard from them.’
After a good meal, fingers sore and cut from fence climbing, the French had to walk out the base with Henri, circle around, and in teams get close, getting over the fence without alerting the dogs. One team came in quietly, two teams barked at, the last two teams quietly going under the fence – making use of the fact that the dogs were barking at a foiled French escape attempt at Stalag Luft 13.
In the morning, a light drizzle making everything shine, I found Sasha’s boys and Moran being mean to the French, all prisoners cold and wet, and unfed.
‘Oh dear,’ I began. ‘Did we get caught trying to escape?’
After being searched, a few hit in the stomach with rifle butts, they were led back into the hut, the door locked, a window being repaired.
Moran closed in, smirking, ‘They got to the fence and then got nipped by the dogs between the fences, not much thought given to getting over both quickly and quietly. Two were strung up for an hour in the rain. Sasha is taking this seriously.’
‘Good practise for the French, realistic conditions.’ I led him off for some breakfast, Major Liban asking after his men, his prisoners, and laughing.
After breakfast, pairs were issued with paintball guns, facemasks and goggles, and sent into the house of horrors from either end. As that was happening others were on the pistol range, some back on the fences and working as a team, now tackling the electrified fence.
Men came out of the house of horrors complaining, paint spattered over them, others jeering them, the next four up.
On the pistol range they expended a great many rounds, and I shouted at a few about stance – as well as their aim, the men worked hard, sent down the range time after time.
After lunch the groups were swapped around, a league table created for those winners of the paintball shoot-outs, a few men disputing the wins - having both fired at the same time.
With some hot food inside them, teams of two tackled both the Killing House and pistol range with MP5s, scores tallied, the camera footage played back a few times, the winners of the paintball shoot-outs slugging it out for top spot. As we observed, a pair went up to the roof, over and down, hitting their opponents from behind, many a curse issued – but in French.
At 9pm Major Liban returned from visiting his prisoners. ‘They are downbeat, yes, hurting, no food, the guards cruel to them – I love this game!’
Those sat around the table laughed.
Liban continued, ‘When I was a boy I
dreamed of Colditz, and escaping. I read all the books.’
‘My team got out on the first night,’ I told him. ‘If your men don’t get out tonight, I’ll teach them.’
‘I think they learn more by suffering and trying,’ he countered with.
The next morning we were ready, ready to screw with the French as we had done with other visitors, Echo lads hiding their smirks. The first French pair moved through the Killing House as we observed via the monitors, the French officers sat with us.
The pair shot at static man-targets, kicked in doors, threw grenades, all very professional. But opening one door two pigeons flew out, a misfire seen and heard. Heads were shaken in the gate house.
At the end of the corridor, the French pair kicked in a door and fired at a target, a crazed dog suddenly tearing at a leg, a man screaming, Liban on his feet in surprise. Seconds were wasted before the second man shot the dog, dragging his mate out. We met them outside, one man limping.
‘Somehow the Range Warden’s dog got in there!’ I said, inspecting the bite. ‘You killed it?’
They exchanged looks. ‘Oui.’
I faced Liban. ‘This could be a problem, we get kicked off the property.’
He checked over his shoulder at the gate house. ‘How did the stupid dog get in there?’
Moran burst out laughing.
‘Ah, you fucks,’ Liban let out as I smiled.
I told the bitten soldier with a smile, ‘Always expect dogs!’
Cursing loudly, the gathered directing staff laughing, the wounded man hobbled off being assisted.
‘Next two get ready,’ I told them, Moran stepping inside to fix targets, and to be sneaky. Few knew about the back door, painted black in a black wall and covered in black rubber.
Back in the gate house, the resident staff all laughing, Major Liban smiling widely and shaking his head, the next pair were sent in, a moment taken by the two men to adjust their eyes to the dark interior as we peered at the grey screens.
This pair cleared rooms proficiently, not disturbed too much by the pigeons, but ducking anyhow. Next room, and they threw a grenade, a burst of flame lighting up the dark corridor, a fire started, Liban off his seat and shouting advice.
His men moved on, wary now of the smoke, and cleared rooms, but in the last room they found a manic pitbull dog, backing up quickly and firing but missing, a stoppage – Liban on his feet and shouting, the second man firing down and killing the dog, a ricochet for his buddy.
Now with the smoke filling the corridor, they rammed a desk through the window and jumped clear. We walked outside to meet them, Liban being very vocal.
I knelt and cut the trouser leg of the wounded man, inspecting the wound. In the canteen, I cleaned the wound, got the small shard out and handed it to him, and got two large stitches in. ‘Be OK,’ I assured him, the French patrol medic having a look.
As the patrol medic bent down, I examined his scalp wound from Morocco, the scar still red raw and distinct. ‘Head OK?’
‘So long as I do not hit it,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And no one hits me.’
‘Did I clean it OK?’
‘No infection, no lumps felt so far, so ... it was OK.’
I left the fun and games when the police arrived and took them to one side, the men keenly observing the armed French.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Donohue, this is Commander Morris, SO13.’ We shook.
‘No more trouble from the Angry Brigade?’ I asked.
‘A bit before your time that,’ Morris noted, both men now stood with hands in their coats.
‘I read a book now and then; us officers types are encouraged to do that. And talk of you merging with Special Branch.’
‘Doubt that will happen,’ Donohue responded. He nodded at the French. ‘Who’re they?’
‘French Echo, their version of my team, just formed. They’ll operate in North Africa mostly instead of GIGN, their arch rivals.’
‘So it’s not just us Brits that compete,’ Morris noted.
‘All units compete, the world over,’ I told them. ‘It’s all about good newspaper headlines ... and a bigger budget.’
‘Your team is quite small though,’ Morris noted.
‘Yes, two troops of eight, plus support staff. Any larger and the SAS will raid us and shoot us.’
‘You don’t get along?’ Donohue asked.
‘It’s up and down. They either love us, or take shots at us. But we work well with the SBS.’
‘SBS are better behaved,’ Donohue said, taking in the French. ‘I remember the problems with Margaret Thatcher, she wouldn’t use SAS bodyguards.’
I nodded. ‘Colonels Rawlson, the current CO, has done a good job of improving things. They’re better now. And he pinches my lads away, which is odd, because I get some of his on loan.’
‘So, this is the famous Factory,’ Donohue noted.
I pointed. ‘Fences of many types, doors and windows to open, kick in, blow up, Killing House, pistol range above, House of Horrors -’
‘House of Horrors?’
‘It has mirrors, holes in the floor, traps. Men go in either end armed with paintball guns, and try and sneak up and shoot each other. Can be spooky and tense, but very realistic. We have a canteen, a dorm that can handle thirty men, and back over the far side is Stalag Luft 13 prison camp.’
‘Prison camp?’ Morris queried.
‘In order to get into a place ... you need to figure the weak spots, the fences, time the patrols. To be good at that we do it in reverse. Men go in, study the guard patrol times, gaps, the fences, and figures ways out. It focuses their minds about what to consider when approaching a hostage situation.
‘Your men might come across hostages being held in an isolated building like a farmhouse. So ... how many hostages, when do the terrorists patrol around, which are alert, which are lazy, where’s the blind spot, are doors or windows wired? Thinking like a hostage helps get it all in focus.’
‘I can see why you’re successful,’ Donohue noted. ‘You practise this over and over.’
‘In Canada, on exercise, we were tasked with approaching and getting into a small camp, identical to that camp at the rear. It was like being home, and we broke the record for getting inside the fastest. The world over, the aspects are all the same.
‘Where are the hostages being held, how many terrorists or hijackers, how are they armed, which are jumpy, which are lazy, how do we get in unseen. Last week, the French were up in Yorkshire, sneaking up on a camp a lot like that one.
‘First they snuck to within a mile and had eyes-on, making sketches and maps, then they got closer, noted patrol times, dogs, gaps, and finally cut the fence, got inside and kidnapped the man in charge and brought him back to me. He was not a happy bunny.’
They laughed.
‘Fuck, no,’ Morris said. ‘His job was to keep them out?’
I nodded.
‘So not a happy camp commander then,’ Morris added with a smile.
‘It’s something your lads can tackle. It’s not quite a domestic street, but the principals are the same.’
‘You could put together a course?’ Donohue asked.
‘A course ... but to get to what standard?’
‘To get to the SAS standard.’
‘I had a chat recently to a few power brokers ... about how I might take an average soldier or officer and make them as good as my lads. Fact is ... stars are born and found, not made. My recent Lone Wolf programme hit a barrier, in that the good became great, the average became good – not great.
‘But what made a difference ... in my assessment of when they’d be ready to go shoot someone, was to take them down to the Congo and then Morocco, put them in a hot desert with rounds coming in, mortars landing, and then assess them.
‘Soldiers who survive such things mature quickly, and mature men don’t freeze when they step around a corner and find a man with a gun. Soldiers, and police officers, can be taught to shoot a paper target, but
what happens when his mate is shot dead, he himself is wounded, and there’s an armed man coming at him?’
‘So how do they get that maturity?’ Donohue asked.
‘We create training programmes in far off lands, and exaggerate the risks a little. Men feel the fear, deal with it, push it out their minds, and as the weeks go by they mature. The difference between the SAS and your men - the well documented and well commented upon difference, is that the SAS man has that maturity on the trigger.
‘Fitness is not the issue, but it helps, it comes down to attitude, the right attitude. My men want to get the hostages out, they like a pat on the back, and they hate terrorists. My men have seen villages wiped out by gunmen, then gone after them. They know why they do it, and the risks they take.
‘Your well-behaved married officer may face a situation that is unfamiliar, and extreme, like a car crash with a dozen beheaded motorists. He may face his friends being killed, hostages killed, knee deep in blood – but he’s still expected to think straight. The SAS don’t think your men can handle it, neither do the politicians.’
Donohue nodded. ‘Teaching a man to be calm when staring down a barrel. Not easy, and I shit myself the first time someone pointed a gun at me. He aimed, pulled the trigger, but forgot the safety, so I ran. Otherwise I’d not be here.’
Morris said, ‘You’d want to take our men abroad?’
‘Can’t simulate fear in the UK,’ I told them.
‘But they’d not get shot or wounded?’ Morris pressed.
‘Small risk of that, otherwise there’d be no benefit. But my men would be to hand, heavily armed. But taking them abroad would be a bad newspaper headline.’
‘Damn right,’ Donohue agreed. ‘It would have to be done on the quiet.’
‘Or as an exchange programme, or as part of an international investigation,’ I said. ‘How about ... the Sierra Leone government asks for detectives to investigate a ... massacre at a village. Your lads are there to protect the detectives, and I make sure my friendly reporter runs the right story.’
‘That could work, we do that now,’ Morris agreed.
‘There are Russian arms dealers down there, drugs, blood diamonds, all sorts of cover stories,’ I pointed out.