Wilco- Lone Wolf - Book 4

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘How hard you try to win ... is not the issue,’ the colonel continued. ‘It’s the policy of how you deal with the wounded that has caused interest.’

  ‘What’s the issue, sir?’

  ‘The issue ... is your policy on wounded men.’

  ‘I have no particular policy on wounded men.’

  ‘But you would finish off a wounded man?’

  ‘Would depend on the circumstances, sir.’

  ‘There are no circumstances ... where it’s OK to finish off a wounded man.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ He stiffened and blinked. ‘With all due respect, sir, you’re talking nonsense. I’ll give you an example: I see an enemy soldier, he fires at me, I fire back, wounding him, he drops to the floor. As I approach he reaches for a grenade. If I don’t finish him off he pulls the pin and I have three men killed, and my first responsibility as a Captain is to the safety of my men.’

  ‘Well, in that particular case, yes, I’d have to agree with that.’

  ‘You said no circumstances, sir.’

  He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘OK, let me rephrase it. Under what circumstances would you – generally – finish off a wounded man?’

  ‘That’s simple: any circumstance where he may pose a danger to me and my men.’

  Rawlson looked happy with my answer.

  ‘That’s a broad brush,’ the colonel complained.

  ‘It’s what it says in the handbook. I know, I’ve read it. Let me tell you what’s also written in the handbook: a soldier should give first aid to a wounded enemy combatant and take him into custody or remove him to custody as outlined by military regulations, subsequent revisions, and the Geneva Convention. Problem is, the regulations are vague at best, and the Geneva Convention does not apply here.’

  ‘The Geneva Convention always applies,’ the colonel insisted.

  ‘Rubbish,’ I told him, and he controlled his surprise. ‘The Geneva Convention was not enacted during the Falklands War, nor in Northern Ireland. You know why, sir?’

  Rawlson put in, ‘Because one party has to formally declare war and register it with the UN.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘No declaration of war here, this is an insurgency and some hostage rescue. And British military regulations, nowhere and at no time, cover hostage rescues. But let’s say that the ... court of public opinion applies here. The British public would expect that we not kill wounded men, or men surrendering, and that we render first aid and remove the men to a suitable facility or hospital, as prisoners.

  ‘Fine. But let’s take a practical example: I’m part of a four man patrol, we encounter an enemy patrol – twenty men, they open fire, we open fire and kill ten, and wound ten.

  ‘If I moved my men forwards from cover to give first aid I would be greatly remiss as an officer, since there would be an excellent chance of a wounded man lobbing a grenade. So, as a policy, we never go forwards and check bodies, we reverse out of there – and as a consequence, wounded men are left to die in agony in a jungle hell-hole full of creepy crawlies.

  ‘But let’s say they’re wounded, and not a threat. The public would like us to render first aid, which may – from a medical standpoint – take ten hours of suitable care before they’re stable and could be moved. Remaining for that length of time would put my men in great danger, a breach of regulations by me.

  ‘We then have four men to carry ten men out of the jungle. Impossible. Getting a helicopter in, to winch them out, almost impossible – even if one was available. And we’d have to tie their hands first in case they were a danger to the helicopter. But in that example, why don’t you tell me, colonel, what you believe regulations say I should do.’

  Rawlson sat back, smugly looking at the colonel who had posed the issues.

  ‘As you say, it would be impossible – in that given example.’

  The general cut in, ‘Have there been any cases where you could be called into an enquiry?’

  ‘Every case is a grey area, sir, so yes – there have been some, and no – I’m not worried about them.’

  ‘You snipe at men from a distance?’ the general asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, but if I can shoot them then they can shoot me.’

  ‘And your exact remit here?’ the general pressed.

  ‘Well, the political remit was to find hostages here and in Liberia, and to assist the government here – who we have money invested in, this charming backwater. To get to the hostages we had to move aside the gunmen, and London had a desire to thin them out.

  ‘At the airport, we were formally requested by the Prime Minister to ... keep the idiot president here alive and in power, and we engaged a large force trying to dislodge him, many killed, no first aid given to the wounded.

  ‘By being here - up country - and walking around, we were in danger, and so anyone other than a government soldier was considered a threat, and engaged. When the locals see us they shoot first say hello second. If you’re not part of their gang, you’re fair game.

  ‘So my policy has been to shoot dead any armed men here, even from a distance, because they’re a threat to my men, to this base, to the British servicemen here. As for the wounded, we always aim to kill, rarely do we aim to inspect the bodies or the wounded – it’s too dangerous.

  ‘We will do, and have done on many occasions, shot men, seen them drop, fired at other men, then returned to men on the ground and fired again in case they are holding a grenade. What we have not done ... is ignored a white flag, shot someone begging for his life, walked up to a wounded man and finished him off half an hour later, or shot civilians.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know,’ the general said. ‘And in essence, London put you here, the locals would have never accepted that – so you are always in danger, and the criteria for shooting is that you are in danger, and the criteria for finishing off a wounded man is that danger of a grenade or weapon. It all comes down to – is there a danger, and ... stepping off the damn plane here is a danger.’

  ‘I’m not worried about accusations, sir, because a court of law needs to make reference to the laws broken, and there are no laws governing hostage rescue in a foreign land.’

  Our Liberian lady brought in a huge pot of whatever concoction she had created, smiling and placing it down, dishes place down, her kids at her knees.

  I thanked her. ‘Gentlemen, dig in if you like, her cooking is excellent.’

  The mood was lifted as they tried the offering, and we got onto questions of what I needed, what the problems here were.

  Half an hour later, and Colonel Rawlson wanted a private word. We stepped outside into the dark, and beyond the ammo boxes, still some light from the electric bulbs.

  He asked me, ‘What do you make of Major O’Donnell?’

  ‘Not my place to say, sir.’

  ‘Bollocks, you’re a very opinionated individual, never shy. So, what do you make of him?’

  I considered my answer. ‘If Major Bradley was here he’d be up early every morning, keen to see what he could do to get the job done, shouting at people to get me the best kit, organising things, and he’d be wanting to batter the bad guys, encouraging me on. If Major Bradley was here ... he’d be enjoying himself doing the job, wanting to do more of it.’

  ‘And Major O’Donnell?’

  ‘Would rather be somewhere else, sir.’

  ‘A good analogy, and you’re correct of course, our men are volunteers, and they’re supposed to want to be here, not want to be home. What are the “G” Squadron men like?’

  ‘Some are OK, some want to be elsewhere.’

  ‘You put a gun in the face of one of them...’

  ‘Dicking about on a live job, in a place where a simple mistake would costs lives. I won’t tolerate that.’

  ‘No, nor should you.’ He took a moment. ‘How do I improve attitude?’

  ‘By letting men volunteer for this kind of work, and by keeping an eye on those that don’t – the seniors. Sergeant Crab is here, and he’s very long in
the tooth, but he wants to be here, not back in Hereford sat in a pub telling war stories.’

  ‘So if I cut the number of men here, and asked for volunteers, you’d tell London what a great chap I was.’

  I smiled widely. ‘Yes, sir, that I would.’

  ‘We have new men coming in, so I’m going to thin out the seniors a little, and be sneaky – asking for volunteers for various fictitious jobs, some real – jobs with you. And I’m jealous of the men you have at your disposal, they achieve a great deal.’

  ‘They all want to be here, sir, that’s the key ingredient. They like this shit. They’d all fail a psyche exam, but their excellent men because they want this.’

  The Chinook returned, and our guests departed. I called outside all of Echo and the Externals, a jeep’s headlights turned on for extra illumination.

  ‘Close in, make sure no one other than Echo is here.’ I waited. ‘OK, someone ... has been blabbing, maybe someone here, maybe the regular SAS, maybe the support staff, and various groups in London are accusing us of having a policy of ... finishing off the wounded.’

  ‘We do,’ Moran noted.

  ‘Yes, because if we walk up to a wounded man he may have a grenade. But ... if some smart civil rights lawyer in London wants to make a case we may have to defend our policy. All of you ... be careful who you blab too, especially outside the detachment, or you could end up in prison. Under no circumstances tell people we finish off the wounded, but that we make sure someone is dead in the initial firing.

  ‘As far as the law goes we’re doing nothing wrong, because the law simply says that we keep firing until we don’t feel that we’re in danger, and from the time we got off the fucking plane – till the time we get back on it, we’ll be in danger here. But all of you, be very careful what you say to outsiders. Dismissed.’

  Later that evening a Lynx landed unannounced, a package for me, and I sat with Moran and Mahoney and peered at aerial photographs taken across the border, noting the mining operations, an analysis made of the large base and how many carriers, jeeps and men it may still house.

  In the morning a convoy arrived from the airport, 2nd Lt Fisher expecting it, two open-tops jeep handed to us, fuel cans offloaded and stacked up, as well as paint.

  As we were checking over the new jeeps, pain tins cracked open nearby, Major O’Donnell came out to find me, taking me to one side. Adopting his pompous tone, he began, ‘We’ve had a new directive from the colonel, and we’re going to scale back here. I’ve been recalled, along with the troop captains, and teams will be made up of volunteers to remain here or to rotate, can’t commit an entire squadron and a half to this indefinitely.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ I told him, knowing more than he did.

  ‘Will you ... want our men on this new job?’

  ‘I’d want a team for rescue and casevac, yes, sir.’

  ‘The men are discussing it, volunteers to remain behind, sixteen – two troops, and your Major Bradley is popping out for a while.’

  ‘We’ll be setting off today, sir, most likely, be gone a few days, we can sort teams when I get back.’

  Returning to my lads, Rocko said, ‘This is matt paint alright, but fucking house paint.’

  ‘Use it anyway, no fucker’s going to notice,’ I told him.

  ‘If it rains it might run!’

  ‘It’s got to be better than white!’ I told him, checking the fuel cans.

  The planned trip north would be no great distance, under thirty miles, plus a few miles across the border, so a seventy mile round trip at best. But these were not smooth British roads, and we’d be in low gear much of the time, stopping and starting, so fuel consumption would be higher. Moran did the maths and agreed that we had more than enough fuel.

  GPMGs were fitted to the open-top jeeps, Rizzo fitting one to the passenger side of a Toyota pickup, fifty cal sat in the back, 2nd Lt Fisher organising cut metal plates. They were too thin to stop a bullet at close range, but would offer some protection from a round coming in at an angle, our local village Mr Fixit and his mate bringing us welding gear and cutting tools. They simply cut into the doors and dropped plates in, the plates sticking up and blocking the side windows, a small slit at eye level for a passenger to peer out of.

  Thinking about anti-personnel mines, I had metal plates placed in foot wells, and they fitted perfectly. Rizzo used a cutting torch to create a slit in a plate and he blocked the gap left by a missing windscreen, on the driver’s side, everyone making jokes about the movie Mad Max.

  Not to be outdone, Rocko had our Mr Fixit cut a slot into another metal plate, and then he placed it over a GPMG barrel on an open top jeep; crude - but hopefully effective.

  At noon we were still at it, the two British Army Land Rovers having metal plates placed in foot wells as our stolen jeeps turned green and black. The paintjob was slapdash, but no one cared; the jeeps did not have to stand up to inspection.

  I made sure that plenty of GPMG ammo was loaded, 66mm, RPGs, but no fresh fifty cal ammo had arrived. Water was duly stacked up, rations, and we were just about ready. Men checked their personal kit, water topped up, ammo topped up, and I finally figured we were ready, a quick glance at the map.

  With the local Mr Fixit thanked, and paid in stolen dollars, we mounted up, and I would be left seat to Swifty, my forward view clear, my side view blocked a bit, Swifty having to peer through a slot. Moran and Mahoney were in the back, with Nicholson and Lassey.

  I halted Swifty, jumped out and had four sandbags brought over, telling my passengers to sit on them, and that they would be needed. Rocko and Rizzo copied, sandbags dropped from the roof, and we were finally set.

  ‘Get your ponchos out ready,’ I told my passengers as I got back in, waving Swifty on, but we halted at the road, looking back. Six jeeps eventually lined up behind us, and we set off, turning right and heading north as it started to rain.

  ‘Poor fuckers in the back,’ Swifty said with a smile, glancing over his shoulder.

  Picking up speed, we soon passed the turnoff for the druggy ghost village, and pressed on north, a few civilian vehicles passed, a few pedestrians passed as the heavens opened and the day darkened.

  The rain stopped after an hour, a slow hour due to numerous deep puddles being negotiated, but at least the rain kept people off the roads as we entered areas we had not ventured through before.

  Passing a dense forest, we came across a large area of red dirt, an open-cast diamond mining operation, men working in the rain. In the distance I could see jeeps and armed men.

  I clicked on the radio. ‘Hit the jeeps left of us, fifty cal and GPMG!’

  The jeep I was in shook as the fifty cal opened up, the first gunmen’s jeep having its glass shattered as a GPMG pumped red tracer into a second vehicle, the damp workers scattering, running for the trees. No fire came back our way, they had been taken by surprise, and as we drove off I glanced back, not seeing any gunmen moving around.

  The roads grew poor, and we chose the back roads to avoid towns and villages, but by doing so we accidentally tripped across mining operations, opening up whenever we did, and by time we reached the border we had killed more than thirty gunmen.

  Passing a sign for the border, a metal sign hanging down at an angle, we crossed over and turned east, taking back roads in a wide circle around the target village, often single track roads that were darkened by the tree canopy above. Figuring that I was within a mile of the place I wanted to find, a break in the trees revealed that we were higher up than I had expected. I halted Swifty at the next break in the trees, and stepped down onto the mud, Mahoney on the fifty cal ready.

  Peering down a valley I could see our objective, a small military-style camp this side of a village, steep hills beyond the village, a road running east to west at the base of the hills, an offshoot serving the village and the camp. Kneeling, I peered through my sights.

  The camp sat on red dirt, the same red dirt as the roads and the mines, ten brick huts in a uni
form pattern, one long thin hut, a guard tower, a front gate, a fence seen in places, a few jeeps – both civilian and military, a large green shed for trucks, three trucks poking out, a handful of men wandering around, most in green uniforms.

  A distinctive drone suddenly caught my attention. I looked up, seeing an old Mi8 approach the camp below, slowing and landing. As I observed, boxes were unloaded, clearly weapons. I clicked on the radio. ‘All of you with rifles and silencers, get ready. If that helo comes our way, shoot the damn thing, but I don’t want anyone aiming towards that camp. No fifty cal.’

  I fixed my own silencer, Swifty getting up on the bonnet, his own silencer fixed, the Mi8 lifting off a minute later and moving diagonally towards us; we’d have a chance as it passed a break in the trees. I set automatic, took aim, and seeing the outline I fired just ahead of the helo, cracks sounding out from behind for two seconds.

  ‘Smoke!’ Mahoney shouted.

  ‘Mount up!’ I screamed down the column, Swifty getting the gear and speeding off.

  We had gone just two hundred yards when we found a gap in the trees and skidded to a halt, the jeep behind nudging us. We could see the Mi8 turning around slowly, but also losing height, and thinking better of it the pilot put down in a clearing 300yards south of us, his wheels sinking into a bog.

  ‘Rocko, Rizzo, with me!’ I transmitted, out the jeep and running forwards down the road and through puddles, to an obvious track and south, hearing sloshing footsteps behind.

  I moved quickly for the first three hundred yards, then slowed, eyes everywhere just in case, a fast walk adopted, a glance back to see eight men, and after moving right through a stream – soaked up to my waist, we found the smoking helicopter.

  Two civilians stood off to one side, sat phones in hand, two pilots, a third civilian in a utility waistcoat, AK47 held, eyes everywhere. I knelt, took aim and hit the armed man with a headshot, quickly up and running forwards as startled faces peered at me.

  I hit a pilot with the butt of my rifle, knocking him into the second pilot, my rifle levelled at the civilians. ‘Kag dillar.’