Wilco- Lone Wolf 7

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘No, sir, I was just wondering where the heck we were going.’

  Fifteen minutes of slow steady movements brought us to a farmer’s field, across from which lay the column some one hundred yards away, and even from here we could hear the cries and moans of the wounded.

  Finding a ditch, I eased into it, up to my knees in water, whispering for everyone to get in. Over the radio I checked that we were all here, and transmitted, ‘Stay low, thirty seconds fire, then turn right, bent double down the ditch to the trees, head down. Echo men, covering fire as we withdraw. Standby. When I fire, you fire. Pass it on.’

  I could hear whispered messages being passed along, and I waited for it to grow quiet. In front of me I could see men running around on the road – illuminated by vehicles headlights, men being carried. Few appeared to have been killed, but all had been issued a piece of hot metal.

  Magazine out and weighed, I tossed it away and grabbed another, took aim at the largest group, and gently squeezed the trigger. The roar built quickly, men on the road spun, many doing a little dance, vehicles windscreens hit, a jeep bursting into flames.

  That added illumination gave me the chance to pick off individual men, some of which were firing at our old position.

  When my magazine clicked empty I got down, my arse in the water, magazine swapped as I shouted, ‘Withdraw!’

  The line of men seemed stuck at first, but slowly got moving – sloshing water, still a few men firing out. I popped up and fired a burst, soon following on bent-double, the ground above me getting hit.

  Still bent-double, I lifted my rifle over my head and fired at the road, a long sixty seconds used up to reach the trees, men in the trees firing at the road, sporadic fire coming back at us.

  I had just moved out the ditch when the tree next to me showered me with splinters, my forehead hit. My gasp attracted Swifty’s attention.

  ‘You hit?’

  ‘Splinter.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I shouted, ‘Heads down, move fast! Go!’

  Fifty yards southeast, and the men grouped, knelt and re-formed teams as I came from the rear and moved my team to the front.

  ‘Anyone hit?’ I shouted.

  ‘My arm, sir.’

  ‘Come to me.’ I knelt, rifle down, torch on, first aid kit out. Scissors out, I cut the bloodied sleeve away. ‘You have a scrape, no big deal, we all have them. It’s going to sting like a bitch, and you’ll need a skin graft, but you’re OK for a few days.’

  I got cream in, gauze on it, and taped it up. ‘Can you use your arm, and your rifle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, we may need that arm, not out the woods yet.’ First aid kit away, rifle checked, I shouted, ‘On me! Fast pace, headcount as you go!’

  I followed a track and moved southwest at a good speed, and finding a hard track I jogged a little, till we came across a road. On the other side of the road I got a shout, the lad with the knee wound unable to keep up.

  I moved back to him. ‘On my back, sit on the webbing. Quickly!’

  Fortunately he was small and light, but my pace was now slower.

  Tripping across a hard dry track I adopted it, a risk, Swifty sent forwards twenty yards, and now I could pick up the pace.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked my passenger.

  ‘Parker, sir.’

  ‘Get your weapon ready, keep an eye out from up there.’

  Fifteen minutes later I called Slider forwards, and handed him Parker. ‘We swap as we go,’ I told Slider, leading them off, maintaining a good pace.

  I was in two minds about the wounded, and it finally concerned me, so I called Captain Harris whilst carrying Parker again. ‘It’s Wilco, we need to meet the choppers for casevac.’

  ‘Pilots are asleep, and both helos are being worked on. We could send vehicles, there is a large force moving your way.’

  ‘What force?’

  ‘The colonel ordered it after he heard about the Liberians. Oh, and Max the reporter is here, flew down on a civvy flight. He’s with the force.’

  ‘He’s determined to get himself killed. OK, let me know about the helos around dawn. Wilco out.’

  ‘No choppers, sir?’ Parker asked, but without too much concern in his voice.

  ‘No, they’re broken. Might be OK for dawn. Can you survive five hours?’

  ‘Yes, sir, just can’t walk too well.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘I checked with the airport, Chinooks are broken, might be OK for dawn. And British ground forces are on their way. In the meantime ... we’re walking.’

  At the next fork in the track I led the group left and towards the river, and reaching the river fifteen minutes later we turned south, now walking on a solid track, Swifty twenty yards ahead out front.

  Figuring a problem with a wounded man would result in a shout for me – rather than me need to ask the question of them, I picked up the pace, calling a halt just north of the narrow river bridge. I patrolled back along the line as the men drank from water bottles, checking on the wounded.

  The man with the stomach wound needed a shit, so I told him to go ahead, but to shine a torch at it his faeces and look for blood. Five minutes later he reported no blood yet. I gave them all time to catch their breath, a sudden downpour cooling them off.

  Moving off again through the dark, we approached the crossing and found no one around, and so moved past quietly, and hour of brisk walking bring us to the main river crossing, Mahoney now also rotating the carrying of Parker.

  I sent Swifty and Slider forwards to sniff around, no movement reported, no static bridge guards reported, and a convenient downpour helped to hide us as we crossed the road near the bridge, moving across fields and to the tree line.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘This is Wilco. Anyone in the OP?’

  ‘It’s Dicky. Where are you?’

  ‘Coming up the ridge in two minutes, fingers off triggers. Follow us back, watching our rear, we have wounded.’

  ‘OK.’

  I struggled up a muddy slope with Parker on my back, torches flashed, the Salties breaking camp and following us after a brief chat.

  So far we had made good time, so I slowed down, four of us now rotating the carrying of Parker, our man with the stomach wound being sick, and slowing us a little.

  ‘Not far to go now,’ I told him. ‘A few miles.’

  ‘I can make it, sir,’ he proudly stated, but the words seemed stronger than the man.

  A slow hour was used up reaching the track to the river, and I halted everyone, flysheets up, a brew on as I checked the wounded, everyone now muddy. With hot tea and sugar inside them the young officers all looked better, and they all seemed determined to display false bravado to each other and to encourage each other – as if they were somehow being assessed for a promotion.

  Our man with the stomach wound managed to eat a chocolate bar and drink his tea without being sick, so that was a good sign, our man with a scrape in a great deal of pain – but soldiering on.

  I walked along to the Salties, now watching our rear, and brought them up to speed on what had happened.

  Back at the main group, I considered getting them up, but there was no hurry, and they needed some rest, so I let them sit and rest, and to nibble chocolate and glucose tablets.

  A distant shriek of monkeys, and I turned my head, my rifle lifted. ‘Swifty, Moran, Mahoney,’ I whispered. ‘Rest of you, stay down, get ready.’

  I clicked on the radio. ‘It’s Wilco, we have movement towards the river, we’re going to take a look, stay sharp.’

  Moving slowly through the thick trees and bushes, I led my team due east, and towards the previous sounds, all of us moving at a dead slow pace, fifteen minutes used up, the ground tested with boots, eyes everywhere, but our ears were more effective in here.

  Voices, up ahead.

  I found a clear patch and stepped across it, testing the ground first, and made it to a large tree. Inching around the huge roots, we
again heard voices, but they sounded female.

  A long ten minutes was used up moving around the area where I thought the sounds were coming from, and finally we could hear crying. Moving around a large bush, I could see movement and I fixed their position, whoever they were. I knelt, and I could feel the others kneeling behind me.

  I listened. Sobbing, English words. These were not soldiers.

  Torch in my left hand, I switched it on. A scream preceded me shouting, ‘British soldiers! Come out!’

  After a long pause came, ‘You’re British?’

  ‘Yes, British Army. Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Nurses, Red Cross, we were kidnapped.’

  I closed in, torches shone into muddy faces and over soaking wet clothes. ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘We were in Guinea before being moved south, but there was a battle, the truck we were in was hit, and we ran.’

  ‘That was us, we assaulted the trucks. But that was about ten miles north of here.’

  ‘We ran till we found the river, and then jumped in and swam.’

  ‘You swam down here?’

  ‘River was quite fast anyhow. Where are we?’

  ‘That river is the border between Sierra Leone and Liberia. Another hour’s swimming and you would have reached the ocean. Come on, let’s get you a hot cup of tea.’

  I led them back, the lads chatting to our escapees.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked over my shoulder.

  ‘One from New Zealand, one from Bermuda and one from Canada.’

  ‘We have a Kiwi with us,’ I told them.

  Reaching the men, torches on, the young officers were puzzled to see three muddy and damp women appear.

  ‘Get a brew on for these women, on the double,’ I shouted. ‘Some food, ponchos to keep them warm.’ The young officers suddenly found the energy to move fast. On the radio I called down Mouri, who struck up an accented chat with the lady from New Zealand.

  Since she had a wound, a grenade fragment, I got some cream in and bound it up as Mouri held the torch, chatting away.

  I asked her, ‘Do you know why you were being moved, or where to?’

  ‘They never told us anything other than we would be released the next day, then executed at dawn, then to be released – over and over.’

  I took Swifty to one side. ‘Bringing hostages down into Sierra Leone makes no sense.’

  ‘On their way to Liberia, a short cut?’

  ‘Not much of a short-cut. I’d have to look at the map.’

  My sat phone trilled, a Panama number. ‘Da!’

  ‘Petrov, it’s Tomsk.’

  ‘How’s that waistline?’ I asked in Russian.

  He laughed. ‘Better, you wouldn’t recognise me. Listen, the President of Liberia, he arranged for some hostages to be moved like before, but they were attacked.’

  ‘Yes, by the British. How many hostages?’

  ‘Three women.’

  ‘I heard the British have them, some wounds. I’ll make sure you get the credit.’

  ‘Ah, good.’

  ‘Where were they going to be moved to?’

  ‘Some bridge, to be handed over.’

  ‘Ah, that makes sense. OK, thanks, I let London know it was you anyhow. Oh, tell your new friend that you wanted to do him a favour, and you hit hard some ex-Liberian Army groups in Guinea. He’ll be happy with you.’

  ‘I will do, and your man sent me some map coordinates, a place off the coast of Liberia, so I sent them to my oil company, and now they are very excited for some reason.’

  ‘The British did a secret survey for oil, that’s where it is.’

  ‘Ah, so we make some money maybe.’

  ‘Hope so. Take care. Pukka.’

  Phone away, Swifty was waiting behind me. ‘The other day job?’

  ‘Yep, and those three ladies were supposed to have been swapped at the bridge here, me being tipped off about it today some time.’

  ‘So that column was on its way to Liberia, via that bridge. And being ex-Liberian Army they didn’t want to drive through Liberia.’

  I whispered, ‘It was our grenades that wounded the ladies.’

  ‘Oops.’

  Hot tea and dried biscuits were handed out as I noticed the sky changing colour, our ladies seemingly starving. Since their boobs were poking through their wet t-shirts they got plenty of attention from the young lads.

  I waited till the ladies were fed and warm, and with ponchos on they fell into step as we moved south, Parker now being carried by Slider. I set a slow steady pace, both for the wounded men and the ladies, the track just mud, and in some places the ladies slipped and fell, their shoes not much good in the mud.

  We had to stop a few times, and at one point the ladies threw mud at each other whilst giggling, and at us, a few rude comments about mud wrestling from our young officers getting a pointed finger from me.

  It was well past dawn when we neared the ambush point, Sasha called on the radio, heavy helicopters heard. Our casevac was finally on hand.

  Sasha and his team stood and greeted us as we neared, a quick chat before we moved onto the strip, two Chinooks sat there, their rotors turning, but slowly and quietly, pilots and crew out and stood around.

  With Parker now on my back I set a course across the strip, but half way across I could see quite a gang emerge from the building, including General Dennet, and what looked like a group of senior staff officers.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ Parker let out. ‘My father. The General.’

  ‘You get on alright?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m to be groomed for top office, but I’d rather work with you. Love this lark.’

  ‘Well, when you have your own regiment you can do whatever you like.’

  ‘Best let me walk, or he’ll tell me off for showing weakness in front of others.’

  I let Parker down whilst thinking about Victorian parenting, and he started to hobble. Glancing back, I could see a very muddy group of young officers and former hostages, a few men displaying blood on faces or white pads, a few being helped along – but tired smiles were evident. The ladies took off their ponchos, their female form obvious even from this distance, and now I could see Max taking snaps.

  Hiding a smirk, I closed in on General Dennet as his group stared at us, shocked, and I saluted. ‘Morning, sir. Nice day for it.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’ he asked as Army medics closed in.

  ‘We ran into a little bother, three little bothers actually, and brought in some hostages.’

  ‘Father,’ Parker stated, saluting his old man.

  ‘You’re hurt?’

  ‘Grenade fragment in the leg, nothing to worry about.’

  General Dennet began, ‘Captain, it was supposed to be a training exercise.’

  I turned my head. ‘Second Lieutenant Parker, did you learn anything?’

  ‘I did, sir, yes, a great deal. When’s the next one of these?’

  His father scowled my way. ‘Many of the group are wounded!’

  ‘Sir, a few short weeks from now ... these fine young officers may well be sent back down here with their units, same jungle, same dangers, only with me they had a better chance of survival. When they come back down I won’t be here, they’ll be on their own.

  ‘But now they all know what it’s like here, what the geo-politics are, what the rules of engagement are, and how to fight well in the jungle. They’ve all seen some action, three separate actions – enemy killed and wounded, and they all acquitted themselves well.

  ‘And I’m sure, sir, that anyone suggesting that they be ... held back from any danger ... would get a punch on the nose.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Parker put in. ‘Officers lead their men, they don’t hide behind a desk.’

  I pointed him towards a medic, and he was helped away, the hostage ladies now with the medics.

  ‘So you’re him,’ a colonel stated, and I guess him to be Colonel Dean.

  ‘Are you Colonel Dean?’r />
  ‘Yes, and we’re due a chat. After you’ve seen a doctor and been cleaned up a bit. Quite a bit.’

  ‘You sent a force north, sir?’

  ‘We did, and they found several trucks and jeeps, a great many dead man, wounded men surrendering.’

  ‘What’ll you do with the wounded men, sir?’

  ‘Hand them over to the government here.’

  I called forwards a Second Lieutenant. ‘What would happen if you handed over prisoners to the government here?’

  ‘I’d be remiss in my duties as an officer, since the law forbids me from handing over prisoners where they may be mistreated, tortured or executed – as is the case here.’

  I turned my head to Colonel Dean. And waited.

  He glanced at General Dennet. ‘The local authorities..?’

  ‘Would mistreat prisoners, yes, so ... he is, technically, correct.’

  ‘I learnt that here, sir, from Captain Wilco, sat in the mud in the jungle. As well as rules of engagement, and the legal issues that arise from the use of force.’

  A brigadier began, ‘You teach law and ethics in the mud, Captain?’

  ‘I teach law and ethics ... before and after a live engagement, sir. That way they understand it, and remember it; a living classroom. And each of these young officers has now had his own small war, and survived it, a tale to tell over a beer, some credibility added to their CVs, some maturity gained – which was the whole point.

  ‘And those that picked up a few scars will gain the respect of the men under them, a tale to tell to new young recruits – and old sergeants who lack respect. What I aimed for, and got, was a small war in a controlled environment, experience accrued for the future.’

  ‘Captain, those prisoners...’ Colonel Dean began.

  ‘Patch them up, sir, give them a few quid, some food, and drop them at the border with Guinea, they’re unlikely to come back this way.’

  He turned his head to General Dennet, who nodded. The colonel stepped away.

  ‘You have a reputation as being a bit blood thirsty,’ a General noted. ‘Seems that’s it’s undeserved. And I’m going to check with London, because you are right about handing over prisoners like that – there is some law about it, and if the idiot dictator here executes them we get criticised by the damn UN and Red Cross.’