by Geoff Wolak
‘Yes, it can take years to get the body weight back.’
‘Oh, one was related to some high ranking American.’
‘A senator, yes. Well, maybe a happy ending for some.’
‘Don’t forget, your young officers arrive on Sunday.’
‘What day is it today?’ I puzzled.
‘Late Saturday night.’
‘We best get back then. Let me know about the readiness of the Chinooks.’
I did not stop for a break, we were on the clock, but we did stop for ten minutes for Tomo to have his monster shit, a few others joining him. Pushing on through the dark, everyone damp, we penetrated streams and marshland, well and truly soaked, but when it rained it washed off the mud.
I found the strip mine LZ by mistake, but pretended that I had been making for it. Flysheets up, I told the lads to get a brew on, and forty minutes later our rides appeared, lights on. We keenly ran aboard in two groups, our muddy feet and sodden state noted by the crewman.
Back at the FOB the Welsh guards were waiting in the dull bulb light, no Americans in sight, the French intel officers hanging around, Whisky greeting me as damp muddy men trailed in, a muddy trail left up the stairs.
‘All OK back here?’ I asked Whisky, a brew thrust into my hand by a keen young Welsh lad.
‘Quiet enough. Your young officers down tomorrow?’
I nodded.
‘Will you be here, or dragged away?’ he posed.
‘I aim to be here, barring emergencies.’
‘Three rescues in a week. That’s more than I did in my career.’
‘Tool fits the job, and when that tool works well people find suitable jobs for it. Those hostages had been there for a year, and let’s face it – few care about them at a political level; government’s care when they read about it in the morning papers. Politicians want good headlines, whereas if hostage rescues were kept quiet ... they’d not send anyone.’
‘You’ve grown cynical.’
I made a face. ‘I’m more enthusiastic about this kind of work than ever. But I also understand the system, and use it for my own ends. I want the hostages back, the power brokers want good headlines – and more power. We both get what we want.’
‘And letting the French and Americans take the lead on jobs..?’
‘More of the same. Their power brokers get a good headline, they return a favour in the future, I get more hostages out, more gunmen in the ground. And those Delta Force guys, that’s their first hostage rescue on African soil, and I’m hopeful there may be a few more – but so long as they’re managed.’
‘You’re an unusual man. You do the scumbag politician’s work for them, but for the right reason.’
‘Ever worked with men who killed ... simply because they like it?’
‘A few, yes.’
‘It would have been nice if they could have fought for the right reasons. All that effort to get in to the Regiment, all that money spent on their training, and they never knew why they were fighting.’
‘Soldiers fight for their mates, not wanting to let their mates down.’
‘And it’s a pity they don’t understand the validity of what they’re doing.’ I finished my tea. ‘Time for a nap.’ I stood. ‘I’ll make good use of you next week.’ I faced the Welsh Guard sergeant. ‘Watch the tree line while we sleep, eh.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Kit off, the team boiling water, I sat cross-legged, my legs muddy, a strong smell of damp clothes. ‘Young officers here tomorrow.’
‘Any more live jobs planned?’ Moran asked.
‘Down to Intel,’ I told them, taking out my tins. ‘But something for Whisky to do next week at least with the officers.’
I was awake at dawn, but could not be bothered to get up, and just lay there for another hour, easing up when Swifty needed a pee. By time he was back I had the water on, but Moran and Mahoney were still asleep. Either that, or they were about as enthusiastic for getting up as I had been.
Swifty was quiet coming back in, and we sat in silence as the water boiled, the floor dirty, our kit muddy, our trouser legs muddy.
Tea made, and sipped, Moran sniffed and eased up, rubbing his face, Swifty handing Moran his cup, a mouthful gratefully taken. Moran got his tins out; burner lit, water boiling, yawning, nothing said.
He finally said, ‘What time are our guests getting here?’
‘Tonight, I think,’ I responded.
He nodded, dried biscuits nibbled on, Mahoney stirring.
The big sergeant attempted a theatrical tip-toe past the lads as they slept. ‘Morning, sir,’ he quietly offered us. He raised a finger, turned on a heel and departed the way he came. A minute later he was back, a saucepan handed over, stuffed full of warm chicken curry. ‘Got some local tinned curry, sir,’ he whispered.
The smell hit us, stomachs rumbling.
‘Thanks, Sarge, you’ll get a good review,’ I told him before he tip-toed out.
Mahoney eased up. ‘What the hell can I smell?’
‘Chicken curry, so dig in,’ I told him.
The curry went quickly, four ravenous men to feed, and it was damn good.
‘Now that’s what I call breakfast,’ Mahoney noted. ‘Not this English rations crap.’
‘English rations are full of vitamins, boy,’ Swifty quipped, making sure the dregs were spooned out.
Brew in hand, dried biscuits nibbled on, we all sat against the walls in silence, enjoying the tea; we certainly weren’t in a mood to do something that involved actually moving.
Lads started to stir, Nicholson an early riser, a few pissing off the roof.
‘Second brew,’ I suggested.
Heads nodded, water boiling again.
‘Curry makes you thirsty,’ Swifty noted.
At the end of the second brew, the drone of a Chinook could be heard thundering in. It set down on the strip.
I lifted up and peered out. ‘Oops.’
‘Our guests,’ Moran noted. ‘I should get a crease in these trousers.’
‘You already have a crease in them there trousers, boy,’ Mahoney told him. ‘It don’t go the way ya all want it to go, but it’s there.’
Easing up, I had no mirror to look in, or I might have noticed the mud in my hair, some blood on my face. Grabbing my rifle, I headed down.
The big Welsh sergeant had organised his men, helping the young officers carry their kit under the direction of Sergeant Crab, Rizzo and Stretch.
A line of men materialised, backpacks on, green lightweight trousers and shirt, green caps on heads, AK47 in hand, an odd mix of weapons, some folding stock.
Crates were unloaded, extra kit, the young officers recognising me as I ambled out to them. The Chinook lifted its arse, dropped its nose, and powered down the strip and away.
Crab looked me over. ‘Rough night?’
‘Rough week.’
‘We’ve been hearing.’
I halted the long line of officers as Rizzo led them forwards. ‘Packs off, sit down, we were expecting you tonight – no rooms available yet. Check-in at this hotel is noon, mini-bar stocked, chocolate on the pillow, towels folded like swans.’
Most laughed as they took in the new abode.
They knelt, backpacks off, and sat as directed as Rizzo and Stretch closed in.
Rizzo asked, ‘Been having fun?’
‘Three rescues in a week,’ I told them.
‘Was supposed to be map reading for the French,’ Stretch noted.
I nodded. ‘A plane landed while we were there, and Intel found some hostages.’
‘So how come the Yanks got the credit?’ Crab asked.
‘Politics. We were sucking up.’ I pointed at the officers. ‘Did you get everything covered?’
‘Aye,’ Crab responded. ‘Worked ‘em hard, lots of weapons training, pistol work and the Killing House. Some shit hot, some fucking crap. Intel and the Major did all the map reading and those tricks and tests, every night, and aerial interpretation.’
‘They shoot straight now?’ I asked.
‘Better than at the start,’ Rizzo said, rolling his eyes.
‘You got pistols?’
‘In the crates for the flight,’ Crab informed men.
‘You slept on the plane?’ I asked.
‘Six hours, good kip,’ Rizzo enthused.
Whisky stepped out.
‘Ah, good timing. Whisky, do me a favour, hour or two on jungle hygiene, jungle survival, then any topic you want, we need to make some space. Sergeant Crab, assist please.’
I stepped across to the waiting officers as they took in their surroundings, some appearing keen, others appearing cautious. ‘Gentlemen, as you may have heard ... we had a job or three to do this week, got back late last night. We’ll sort rooms soon, you won’t be sleeping in the jungle, at least not all the time.’
I led Rizzo and Stretch inside. Major Liban was sat eating breakfast. ‘Major, this week – if things are quiet – we do the training I had planned. That starts with all your men moving into the tree line to live and sleep. If you do that this morning we’ll give your rooms to the guests.’
He nodded. ‘Soon, yes. But this week will be quiet?’
‘I have no idea,’ I told him.
I washed, changed my trousers and shirt to my original pair - clean but creased to hell, cleaned my kit, cleaned my rifle, had a coffee with Liban, and I was ready. But since Whisky was in the tree line with our guests I took it easy, organising the French.
Major Liban led his men to the tree line close to the northwest track, the Welsh Guards still manning their OP come ambush point. The French would create three camps in line of sight, three troops, flysheets up, ponchos down. But I asked that they camouflage it some, especially to the north.
I observed as flysheets went up, and I walked along to the young officers, the men keenly listening to Whisky in two half-circle rows, one row sat and one standing.
‘- you take a piece of fine cloth, then something rougher, then moss, more cloth, and pour the shitty brown water over it. What you have to keep in mind is that the water has microbes, and they will make you sick, and fever-going-blind sick – not just the shits.’
Using an old plastic bottle, the base cut off, he made a more elaborate filter, pouring muddy brown water in, getting clean water out. I left him to it, a nod at Sergeant Crab.
After a leisurely lunch in the canteen I headed out, Echo tasked with simply relaxing today, French Echo the same – but in the trees. Across the strip I found the gang, Whisky discussing what animals and plants in the jungle were edible. He made eye contact with me and I stepped in.
‘You have rations in your webbing?’ I asked the young officers. They had. ‘Pair up, find a space, cook a quick lunch, half circle facing me.’
They got themselves sorted, but I had them close in a little as Whisky sat on a log with Crab.
‘You may have heard about what went on here this week, so we’ll go through it. First, the history if this place.’
I gave them a twenty minute lecture on what had happened here last year, before coming to this week. ‘When we got here ... we were tasked with training our French counterparts. They’re good solid men, they don’t complain, and they’re great when the shooting starts. But we have a long track record of successful operations, so we were asked to get them up to speed.
‘We knew that a rebel group had reformed over the border, so we went to have a look, two groups, about forty men on our side, different routes taken. We met up near the objective, and got eyes-on the target camp you’ve been hearing about, the idea being that the French would close-recon the camp, and if we felt the men posed a threat to the border we would have attacked. Now, what’s the legal and moral issue there?’
A captain said, ‘What legal remit did you have to attack them?’
‘Our remit ... started when Britain signed a defence treaty here. That means ... the law of this land applies to our actions here, and the lawmakers of this land want us to shoot to defend this land. If someone is planning to attack us here, but are a few miles over the border – does it matter? Hand up if you think it does.’
Almost half raised hands.
‘A similar situation to this might be going after the IRA in Southern Ireland, or the RAF flying over neutral Sweden in the last war. London ... had no issues with us going over the border because of the nature of that border. Liberia is a failed state with an illegal dictator at the helm, so why would we respect his border?
‘If the border was fenced, manned, a legal democracy in place, then it would have been a different matter. The whole point is ... it’s a failed state that sponsors illegal gangs, hostage taking, drugs, and has no seat in the UN. No one could effectively challenge our presence as being illegal.
‘Last year, and yesterday, we moved into Guinea, but did so with their permission, a different case. We don’t charge into a country without London giving the green light, or in fact without London sending us – as was the case. Now, what are legal issues around hostage rescue? What laws govern it?’
‘British law, and Military law.’
‘Nope.’
‘No?’ they queried.
‘There are no sections of British or international law that govern hostage rescue. If a hostage rescue is conducted on home soil, it comes down the Home Secretary authorising the use of force. If it’s overseas, it’s the Prime Minister or the Defence Chiefs. If it’s a failed state ... no laws apply unless you chose to make them apply.
‘Now, consider the French strafing a hilltop village. What was the legal issue?’
‘It was illegal,’ many said.
‘Yes, and ministers resigned, but no one will go to prison. Why? Because it was on foreign soil, and the legit government of Algeria does not wish to push the issue. Gentlemen, there is a legal gap and moral dilemma when it comes to civilian deaths in a failed state, if those civilians are near the bad guys – or even related to them.
‘In several instances ... I rescued hostages from a house where the kidnapper’s family lived, his kids sat playing next door to the hostages. If those kids are killed, who’s at fault? Hands up for the hostage takers being at fault.’
More than half raised hands.
‘Who here would go to great lengths to not kill the kids?’
Most all raised hands.
‘Good, I should hope so. Fact is, it’s down to your own morality, because if you kill those kids you’ll not be prosecuted. It’s up to you to make sure the men under you don’t kill unnecessarily – even if you’re a long way from civilisation.
‘Now, let’s consider basic law and the morality of soldiering. You’re at war, you come across an enemy patrol, you open fire and kill or wound the enemy. What next?’
‘Take them hostage, give first aid.’
‘Bollocks.’ I waited. They exchanged looks
‘The Geneva Convention -’
‘Applies when the Geneva Convention is enacted by a declaration of war registered at the UN. There was no declaration of war during the Falklands conflict, nor in Northern Ireland. So forget the Geneva Convention. Let’s say you’re here when Liberia starts a conflict, no declaration of war. You’re tasked with protecting the border.
‘So, you’re in the jungle, eight man patrol, you’ve shot the enemy. Now what?’
‘Report it up the line?’
‘Always a good thing, yes. But what do you do when the shooting stops?’
‘I’d say disarm them, get any identifying documentation.’
‘Good. So, you move forwards, wounded men open fire, a grenade is thrown, you have six men down, a three day walk to help. Well done, Dickhead. So, any other answers? What do you do?’
‘Leave?’
‘Maybe, or you could finish off the wounded.’
‘That would be illegal.’
‘Would it?’ I waited.
‘Well ... yes.’
‘Well ... why? The basic legal and moral bond between officer and
men is that you don’t get your men killed by being reckless. Sending your men forwards would be reckless. You have a duty of care to your men ... to keep them alive. You shoot a man in the jungle, he goes down, hidden. You send a man forwards, he’s killed, and you have to explain why up the line – and to his grieving family.
‘So what does this duty of care mean, and how does it conflict with a desire to win the war?’ I pointed to a Second Lieutenant.
He began, ‘The duty of care ... means that lives are not wasted, not like the First World War. That’s balanced against the desperation of the situation, such as D-Day. Here, a border skirmish, is not D-Day, so the skirmish does not need to be won at any cost. It’s a balance.’
‘Good, yes. A balance, and finding that balance is the trick. Is this border worth the lives of ten British soldiers? Are our economic interests worth fifty dead soldiers? Probably not. If you shoot at an enemy patrol in the jungle, they go down, you can still see them – some moving, you keep firing until your duty of care is satisfied, until your men are no longer in danger.
‘But, as was the case when I faced a Parliamentary Select Committee, such actions lead to claims of shoot to kill. Well, if we don’t kill the enemy they keep coming, and we lose men. Rather they lose men than us. And gentlemen, there is nothing illegal about shooting a man ten times, or that you continued shooting till you were sure.
‘You shoot until you’re happy that the danger to your men has been greatly reduced, and if you throw grenades at them – fine. You are legally and morally responsible for your men, and their safety, first and foremost. If there are wounded crying out for help, and you think it unsafe, you back away – and you live to fight another day.
‘Nowhere does it say that you must throw away lives to give first aid to enemy soldiers. If you see a wounded enemy soldier in no man’s land, do you risk your life to go get him – get a medal? No, you shoot the fucker. War is simple: if we kill more of them than they kill of ours we win.
‘Considering that, you must also consider small unit tactics. A month from now ... some of you may be leading a platoon into a small war, or some of you may be back down here on peacekeeping duties. So ... you lead your patrol to the border, see an enemy force. They spot you, open up, you return fire and kill and wound a few, one of your men has a minor wound, a scrape. So ... what do you do next?’