by Geoff Wolak
As we started to lose the light we found a village, the usual noises of traffic and minor industry interwoven with the odd gunshot. The village nestled into a valley, tall trees on either side, so I split the teams, Moran and Mahoney taking their team the long way around to the opposite side, making radio contact when in place.
Flysheets up in thick trees, camp set, I positioned the officers in pairs, observing the village, the centre of which was just about three hundred yards from our position on the ridge.
Night came on, largely unnoticed by the villagers, who were all moving around in yellow bulb light, the main street brightly lit, traffic moving through the village.
I settled down next to Whisky, and we observed the village. Above us, two large trees bent over towards each other, large green leaves from bushes hiding us, a fallen log offering cover from incoming fire – should there be any.
Whisky began, ‘You’re making me think here, all this legal stuff. Most troopers don’t think, and don’t have to.’
‘My lot have to think, I make sure of that, otherwise they’d be shooting up villagers for fun.’
‘And “D” Squadron, in Niger?’
‘They sprayed it a bit as we withdrew, kids hit.’
‘Any charges brought?’
‘Not that I heard off, but the whole troop was punished, so they know what they did wrong.’
‘But will they learn from it?’ Whisky posed as the tree frogs serenaded us in the dark.
As we sat there we identified a house used by gunmen, a bar they frequented, and where they parked their jeeps, and an hour passed, the rain holding off for now.
I could see the problem, in that the men down there were drinking the local home brew, both the gunmen and the local villagers; tensions would rise proportionally with the alcohol consumption rate.
An hour later, and a drunken gunman threatened a lady in the street, but she pushed him over and fled. His AK47 was covered in mud, so was he, making us laugh. That same gunman, now being laughed at by his armed buddies, warned them by pointing his rifle towards them. They lifted rifles, the stand-off lasting a few seconds, the hapless drunk gunman walking away from his tormentors – and towards my position.
When he ducked into a house I had an idea. I took aim, silencer on, and put a quiet round through a jeep window.
The gunmen near it were not impressed, and walked towards where they had last seen our hapless drunken gunman.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Swifty, get ready.’
As the men entered the side street, I hit the jeep again. They spun around, trotted to the street, and looked both ways, wondering where the round had come from, and realising it was not the man in question.
After ten minutes, they gave up and went inside for a drink.
Fifteen minutes of singing, slamming doors, husbands and wives arguing, and we observed three green military-style jeeps drive in from the north, a dozen gunmen in the back.
Out stepped someone who looked like he was in charge of something. I was not sure what he was in charge of, but he did not like the jeep with a smashed windscreen, so I guessed it was one of his jeeps.
He stormed into the public bar, emerging a minute later with the original gunmen, a row going on about who shot up his jeep. At that moment, our hapless gunman below was turfed out the house by a large angry woman, way too big for him to fend off.
Drunk, our hapless gunman picked up his muddy rifle and fired a burst before falling over, Whisky laughing along with me.
But the kingpin was not amused, thinking the rounds aimed at him. He led his men forwards.
As they neared the entrance to the side street, our hapless gunman sat up, and fired a burst. I timed it right, and hit the kingpin between the eyes, his second in command hit in the chest. Another man flew back, so that must have been Swifty. The gunmen on the main street did, quite sensibly, get down.
‘Moran for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What’s happening? I could see that exchange.’
‘When our hapless drunk gunman fired, I picked off a few of his fellow gunmen. He’d get the blame.’
‘Sneaky sod,’ came over the radio.
‘You got an angle on the men in the street?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If you hear a burst, hit one of the gunmen.’
A few minutes passed, the gunmen not sure what to do now that their boss and his second in command were dead. And there-in started the next problem, because a drunken gunman – fresh from the bar – stumbled across and seemed to be suggesting that he was now in charge. Problem was, where he chose to stand.
Our hapless gunman lifted his muddy rifle and fired, my shot killing the newcomer, our hapless drunk having hit a car. There-in started the second problem, because the car’s owner appeared – not impressed, and shot dead our hapless drunk.
As that man fired, Moran and Mahoney had each hit a gunman at the end of the street, and war was now declared. Bursts of fire entered the side street, the angered car-owner a damn good soldier. He knelt behind a telegraph pole and picked off three men, wondering how five men were now dead for three rounds fired, and I had hit the tyres of a jeep as well.
Men burst out the bar, a few falling over, one discharging his weapon into the mud. The others opened up, for whatever reason their drunken brains had conjured up.
Myself, Whisky and Swifty opened up, Moran and Mahoney opened up from their side, a few of the officers joining in because they thought they should, and little more than ten seconds later every gunmen lay still on the ground, all shot, most dead, a few still moving.
I clicked on the radio. ‘This is Wilco, break camp and move out north.’
I took down the flysheet and rolled it up, teams formed and head-counted, and we moved north, just the tree frogs sounding out, no gunfire on the breeze. I led my teams across the road beyond the village limits, and we met up with Moran’s team before we moved into thick trees.
Finding a suitable campsite with a stream, I had the teams get flysheets up as it started to rain. We were under the flysheets as the heavens opened, a short loud downpour that ended as fast as it started.
I eased out. ‘OK, close in,’ I shouted. When they were assembled, just dark outlines with a grey edge cause by the moon coming out, I began, ‘OK, who has their finger on the trigger?’
They laughed.
‘Right, as you will have seen, local gunmen often drink the home brew ... and fight with each other. As we observed ... they all shot each other.’ Laughter broke out. ‘Since we simply observed the action and did not get involved there are no legal issues. Unless of course, someone here fired into the village...’
I waited, heads turning. ‘Good to know that you demonstrated restraint. OK, get a brew on, take a shit, one hour.’
My phone trilled, so I stepped away into dark the darkness. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s a Colonel Dean. I was 2 Para, now on a staff posting, now down here in Freetown and in charge. Question is ... where are you?’
‘I’m about twelve miles north of the FOB, sir, just getting a quiet brew on with the trainees.’
‘I was hoping to meet for a chat, and soon.’
‘Should be back in a day or two, sir. Did you bring any men with you?’
‘Yes, NCO’s and officers, and we’ll take a more aggressive role, security beefed up, airport security better.’
‘Any ID on our shooter, sir?’
‘Links back to an ex-Liberian Army group, which you shot full of holes I understand.’
‘We did, sir. And that’ll teach them to deal in hostages.’
‘Yes, quite. And perhaps the rest need a lesson.’
‘That would alter the balance of power here, sir, so I’d want London to put its seal of approval on that. Those ex-army lads may end up as next year’s president of Liberia, and some get funding from The West.’
‘I see. So a bit of a political hot potato. When I was requested for this they told me to get a br
iefing from you rather than the Foreign Office, and I can see why. None of the stuffed suits mentioned such a thing.’
‘I understand the geopolitics, sir.’
‘And what exactly are you doing with junior officers – in the jungle, in a dangerous spot?’
‘Idea is that these promising young officers see some action, as if they had been in a small war, and that they mature from it. They had a week’s weapons training, advanced map reading, route planning, and now they’re living rough, afraid, and have already been in two firefights.’
‘Firefights? So why haven’t I heard about it.’
‘Nothing to report, no assistance needed, sir. We came across gunmen executing villagers and intervened, after which I held a debate about rules of engagement and military law, morality of warfare, insurgency, and the police role of soldiers.’
‘Classroom in the jungle, eh. Well let me know when you’re back, Captain, we’ll sit down.’
Call cut, I figured I would call the FOB, and recalled the number for Major Liban.
‘Oui?’
‘It’s Wilco.’
‘Ah, you are up-country, no.’
‘Yes, maybe twelve miles north, still inside the border, two shootouts so far, no injuries.’
‘We patrol south, and find some men with guns and shoot them, but I don’t say they come here to the camp maybe. And then we patrol east to the river and north and find the ones you called Salty, and then we go west to the dead village, but men in a jeep fire at us.
‘We have one small wound, and we shoot them dead, no problem. We go north five miles and shoot ten, and walk back.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been practising without me. No attacks on the base?’
‘No, and now some vehicles with 105mm, so it is well protected.’
‘The British commander at the airport has gone, new man, Parachute Regiment, more aggressive.’
‘London wants to put an end to problems here quick, no.’
‘They do. Take care, I’ll be back in a day or two. Oh, go tell the British I’m OK.’
‘They are sat here, we are in canteen – fried chicken.’
Phone away, I sat and cooked with Swifty. ‘Major Liban and the others are sat having fried chicken in the canteen.’
‘Sounds good,’ Swifty noted.
‘Is it true, sir, that you carried Sergeant Crab on your back for forty miles?’
‘That fat bastard?’ I asked, the men laughing. ‘No, I got a lift from an old guy in a truck, so it was more like twenty miles.’
‘And you walked for three days across the desert in Niger, seventy miles?’
‘Yes, but walking through the desert is easy if you have water and a compass and you’re not – you know – a complete twat.’
‘And are you allowed to say what happened in Bosnia?’
I gave them the canned version.
‘And you do naughty jobs for Mi6 and the CIA?’
‘I do jobs for Mi6 all the time, some cooperation with the CIA.’
‘And you have Russian men working with you?’
‘Yes, and a New Zealander, two French, and a Yank – but he’s OK for a Yank.’
‘I’m sat right here,’ came Mahoney’s voice, the men laughing.
‘How come you work with Wilco, Lieutenant?’
‘I got a high score on the three-day test, just about the time when they were asking for someone for a placement.’
‘For six months,’ Swifty reminded him. ‘You’re past your sell-by date.’
‘Knob off,’ Mahoney told him.
‘Charming language from a West Point officer,’ Swifty quipped.
‘You went to West Point?’ some asked.
‘No, I came up through the ranks. I work for a living.’
‘Bleeding common ranker,’ came jokingly from a few of the officers, but I wasn’t entirely sure they were joking.
I told them, ‘Mahoney scored more than ninety percent on my three-day test. None of you lot will ever beat that.’
‘And Captain Moran?’ someone asked.
‘Ninety-two percent,’ Moran proudly stated. ‘Try and beat that.’
‘We’ve heard it’s very tough.’
I told them, ‘You have to shoot and think when dog tired, simulated artillery falling, dogs chasing you. If you can get a good score – you can do anything.’
Grub down us, tea enjoyed, we packed up because it was still early, and I led them northeast, the river glimpsed at one point, but it was meandering away from us.
Two hours later, as I was thinking of making camp, the growl of heavy trucks caught my attention, and I diverted the column west. A slow muddy trek through thick trees led to a low ridge, and below us sat a line of five military trucks headed by three jeeps – potentially a hundred men.
Right now, those men were stood around smoking, a truck being worked on, a tent having been raised. I called up Swifty, Moran and Mahoney and they had a good look.
‘Lot of men,’ Mahoney cautioned.
‘Why the tent?’ I thought out loud.
‘You don’t raise a tent unless you’re staying a while,’ Moran put in. ‘Truck is broken, maybe two, or they’re waiting for extra men to join them.’
‘Then what?’ Swifty asked. ‘An attack south?’
‘Those men are well organised,’ I noted. ‘Ex-Liberian Army probably, revenge on their minds?’ I lifted my phone and punched a number.
‘Rocko.’
‘It’s Wilco. We’re about fifteen miles north of you, just come across a column of trucks with soldiers, maybe ex-Liberian Army out for a scrap, maybe a hundred men, but for now they’re parked up – tent up as well, so not moving till dawn. Set some ambushes, but we may have at this lot.’
‘What, with those fucking Ruperts?’
‘Might not have a choice, I don’t want this lot just going home, or attacking the airport.’
‘You want us up there?’
‘No, I want the FOB protected and the border area. Besides, there may be a column already on its way to you. You come up here and the FOB gets a kicking.’
‘I’ll set an ambush up the road, 105mm in the trees and RPG.’
‘You got RPG?’
‘Yeah, loads.’
‘Stay sharp, Staff Sergeant, could be a long night. Let everyone there know about his column.’
I called Captain Harris and gave him the detail, asking him to pass it on. I would have called Bob, but I knew what he would say about the young officers being here – and the risks.
Phone down, I quietly said to Swifty, ‘If I spoke to Bob, he’d tell us to withdraw, and to keep the young officers away from any action.’
Swifty suggested, ‘Could open up for ten seconds and leg it away. If they have wounded they’ll fuck off back to where they came from.’
‘We have grenades,’ Moran reminded me. ‘All throw at the same time, then we run away.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I agreed. ‘Bring up the teams, dead slow dead quiet, spread along.’
Moran and Mahoney moved off through the dark, Swifty leading forwards our team and placing the men, all told to put fuses into grenades – and very fucking carefully!
We soon had a tight line of men on the ridge, a thirty yard throw of a grenade, so they would need to be good throws. I told everyone to aim for an imaginary spot, ten feet off the ground above the trucks.
Ten minutes later, and no one had blown himself up getting fuses into grenades. We were set. Some of us would open fire, the young officers all tasked with throwing two grenades in quick succession when the shooting started, then to grab rifles and withdraw to the rear.
I issued a ‘Standby’ message, set automatic, took aim at the tent, and squeezed the trigger, spraying the tent for three seconds before the first flash and blast, soon visually stunned by the flashes and deafened by the blasts, but not as deaf as the men below as hell was unleashed upon them.
Magazine empty, I eased back, shouting, ‘Withdraw.’
> ‘Get down!’ someone shouted.
I knelt, the blast close, just over the ridge, a few men crying out. ‘What was that?’ I shouted, rushing to the right.
‘Grenade hit a branch, bounced back,’ came an apologetic voice.
‘Who got some?’ I shouted.
‘Here,’ came from several men.
‘Withdraw now, we’ll patch you up soon! Move it! In your teams, in your pairs!’
I led them off down the slope and away from the action, rounds now cracking overhead, and I adopted a track I found, heading south in a hurry and aiming to put some distance between us and the column.
Four hundred yards down the track I found an opening, and halted. First aid kit out, torch on, I shouted, ‘Wounded forwards! Echo men, watch the rear!’
As I knelt, young officers came forwards, facemasks ripped off, pained expressions displayed. A head wound I taped up after squeezing a piece out, cream in, a cheek would dug out and cleaned up before being taped.
The next man had a piece in his shoulder, not much blood, soon taped up. ‘You’ll need surgery, but you’re good for a few days. Keep fighting.’
‘I’m OK, sir.’
The next man had a piece in his knee, squeezed out - accompanied by a yelp, cream in, two large stitches, the wound taped up. The last man had a piece in his stomach.
‘You’ll need surgery, good for a few days yet. Looks like your intestine was hit, so you might just shit it out.’
‘Should we ... not get a chopper in?’ he asked.
‘Job’s not finished yet. You want to risk a chopper being shot down for your minor wound?’
He took a moment to consider his answer. ‘I can continue.’
‘Good man. We’ll make a hero out of you yet.’ First aid kit away, torch away, I stood. ‘Form up in teams! Quickly! In your pairs, in your teams, on me!’
I moved off south, but cut around to the west, through thick trees before we hit long grass, and seeing the road I led them to it, all bunched up before we risked crossing it at full pelt.
Across the road I turned north again.
‘Where we going, sir?’ came a voice.
‘To finish the job. They won’t be expecting us this side, and if we don’t finish off that column then they attack the Welsh Guards. You want someone else to do your job for you?’