by Geoff Wolak
‘Trained in the jungle, but before I met you I’d not killed a man. Now ... now it seems routine. Not sure if that’s a good thing, but it’s getting a hell of a lot easier day by day, and for a soldier ... I suppose it’s a good thing, but I sometimes feel sorry for some of these dumbass mountain boys we shoot.’
I nodded. ‘And which are you becoming; the caring enlisted man, or the cold blooded officer who follows orders?’
‘Still getting it sorted in my head, and I wonder what I would do here if I was calling the shots. Certainly wouldn’t drop RPGs from a helicopter, nor take on five hundred men with thirty.
‘Half the time I think you’re crazy, but I have enough confidence to wait and see how it turns out, and then think what I would have done. The move against that base in Liberia, that was hardly text book – a huge gamble, but it worked. The road ambush of the first large column, that fooled them and it worked. So I’m starting to think in new ways I’ll admit.’
I nodded, taking in the camp below. ‘In the old days, men would line up facing each other and shoot till one side ran out of men. It all came down to who could load fastest and shoot straightest – and it hasn’t changed. We win if we hit more of them and faster, and to that ... you don’t just need to practise, you need to believe you can do it.
‘Before Bosnia I had some successes, but I didn’t quite believe I could do it. After Bosnia I knew I could do it, and I shot so many men it became routine. When your life depends on it ... you shoot well, you shoot fast, you reload fast, and you think fast. For me ... Bosnia was basic training for this. But I made a mistake with the FOB here, took a risk, we should have secured it better, could have lost men.’
Mahoney began, ‘It was bold, as usual. Who dares wins ... and all that crap.’
‘My luck will run out soon enough,’ I told them. ‘I should be more cautious.’
Henri shrugged. ‘If you are cautious, you are not Wilco, you become like Mister Haines – by the rulebook, a normal soldier, and you will get men killed for holding back.’
I took in Henri’s darkened features as he stared back at me, and I nodded, thinking.
Max’s first shot went wide, and failed to detonate. His second shot brought down a tree, but his third shot hit the helicopter in the nose, blowing it apart and engulfing it in flames as Rocko and Rizzo hit the base buildings, Slider and Stretch firing RPGs. We finally drove off through the dark, leaving the camp burning, two white jeeps trailing along at the rear.
At 10pm we pulled into the base, lights on, horns tooted, not wanting anyone to fire at us. Sergeant Crab checked it was us, and waved us in.
Major Bradley stood waiting with Haines, Dicky and Travis now back from Freetown. ‘One careless owner?’ he asked as I stepped down.
‘We found them abandoned, sir, keys inside,’ I said with a straight face.
He pointed. ‘Prisoners?’
‘Yes, sir, we’ll hand them over to the government here, after a good warm meal, a quiet chat with some money in their hands.’
‘Got plenty of money, have you?’
‘Found some lying around, sir. Grows on trees around here.’
‘Plenty of vehicles as well now,’ he noted.
I led him inside, and after dumping my kit I joined him in the canteen with Moran, our prisoners speaking French. The two nervous prisoners were untied, fed, and shown more dollars than they could earn in a lifetime, some handed over – a firm hint given about a shower with lots of soap.
With Max listening in, the two men detailed how they had been press-ganged as teenagers, how they never wanted to be soldiers, how they wanted to just farm back in Liberia – a great story for Max.
I promised to send the men back to Liberia with some money and a jeep each, which stunned them. All they had to do was to annotate a few maps, and give us a rundown of how things worked – and there was no shutting them up once they got started; these guys would have shot their old paymasters given half a chance.
Before I headed off to bed, the Major took me to one side. ‘Major O’Donnell is to be replaced, the Colonel not happy with him. Colonel seems intent on shaking things up a bit.’
‘As I said before, sir, this work should be done by regulars – if they had a better attitude.’
‘You create comparisons, and they don’t look so good.’ He handed me a piece of paper, a list of names. ‘Who on that list would you keep on, the Colonel wants to know.’
‘I’d keep Nathan and Bridge only.’
‘Me too.’ He pocketed the list. ‘Colonel has been a bit sneaky, he spoke to three men who did the three-day and persuaded them to do selection, put their names at the top of the list.’
‘That was the whole point of the three-day, sir, not just for Echo Detachment.’
‘Well, things might be different with some new blood, some of the seniors kicked out. He has his eye on some of your Externals as well.’
‘I have no problem with that, they’re close by to call upon.’
‘But a year down the road the Colonel may want Echo gone,’ the Major warned.
‘That’ll never happen, Mi6 are too selfish, and they’ll always want some jobs done off the books. “E” Squadron will always be there, even if Rawlson improves the attitude of the lads.’
In the morning I sent out many of the lads, roving patrols in the jeeps, mining operations to be disrupted. I chatted with the twelve regular troopers who had volunteered, many manning the defences, but I soon had that role given over to the RAF Regiment, foot patrols of regulars sent out to the border and back.
Our two prisoners had been given a good breakfast, and then handed shovels, trenches to dig, no one worried about the men running off – the reformed gunmen wanted the jeeps and the money promised.
The next day, as a long column of our jeeps moved north east and across the border, our Lynx hit the large base again, several personnel carriers set ablaze a few minutes before we simply drove up to the front gate.
The gate guards lasted a few seconds, 105mm hitting jeeps and carriers close-up in the confusion, RPGs fired from a team on the wire, gunmen mown down by several GPMGs hammering out rounds. It was all over in ten minutes, the survivors scattering.
Stretch set charges and blew the drains near the front gate, large holes cut into the tarmac, making it difficult for vehicles to enter the base in future.
I knew that peacekeepers were on their way to Sierra Leone, to fill the gap left by the Pakistanis, and I knew that it would make moving across the border very hard, already having discussed that with the Major.
The next day a very long column of white personnel carriers reclaimed the old Pakistani base north of us, all border crossings soon to be manned, many road junctions manned. That certain phone call was inevitable, and we were recalled the following day.
I gave our two prisoners plenty of cash, jeeps with plenty of fuel – white jeeps, rifles and ammo, and asked them to drive our cook across the border to the town with one baby and the young boy. The lads waved them off, our cook having plenty of cash to hand for her extended family, and very grateful.
I dispatched the regulars back to the airport, as well as the infantry, six white personnel carriers driving in ready to claim our happy home for the peacekeepers. The RAF Regiment packed up and boarded Chinooks – all thanked by me, and we arranged for the boxes of munitions to be picked up in trucks.
The medics were dispatched by Chinook, the Major and 2nd Lt Fisher, kit lugged, Max holding our albino baby. We were last to board the Chinooks for the ride to the airport, and I looked back at our temporary home, suddenly very saddened to be leaving, and at the airport I made a call to the cabinet office, getting put through to the man I wanted.
‘Captain Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir, calling from Sierra Leone. I’m calling in a favour, and the Prime Minister owes me a few. This is what I want, and the story will be in the press tomorrow...’
Arriving back at Brize Norton, I boldly walked down the steps with th
e baby in my arms, Max taking pictures, two ladies from Wiltshire Social Services waiting, the albino handed over; she would be granted asylum, or else, The Sun newspaper running the story, the BBC news as well, and the Prime Minister would have found himself in the shit storm of his life if he had refused the little chubby lump a British passport.
The newspaper had found a family already nurturing an adopted African albino, and they would be temporary foster parents till the paperwork was sorted, the happy family in the press limelight – and happy with donations sent to them via the paper.
All of the lads were told to turn up the next morning in civvy clothes, and I thanked the externals before they departed.
Once more I found myself in a cold empty apartment, my milk a solid cheese now, and I sat staring out the window as the rain ran down the pane diagonally, tea without milk in hand, and four hours later I was still sat there cradling the mug, my mind in slip gear and somehow unable to process the silence, unable to work at a slow speed.
I had turned on the kitchen light but left the others off, and I sat in the dark like a sniper waiting his next shot, just the sound of the rain hitting the window for company.
In the jungle I was somebody, and I was alive, but back here in my apartment I felt like a nobody, alone, unwanted almost. The intensity of the fighting was never felt at the time, but could be felt now in the cold silence of an empty apartment, like a drug addict coming down off the high.
I knew how the “E” Squadron has-beens felt, I knew exactly how they felt, and why they went mad. Here, in this quiet moment, I was temporarily one of them, and the thought of leaving the Detachment scared the hell out of me.
The work defined me, the Detachment defined me, and I had moved from despising the likes of Rizzo, and his mindset, to becoming Rizzo – with the same mindset, to moving way beyond Rizzo, to becoming something I would have never believed possible, something that Sergeant Foster in Brize Norton would never have believed, and would certainly not have understood.
Rizzo still had enough normality left to walk away from all this, but I was way beyond a return to normal life. At the speed I was living there was no slowing down or stopping.
At 9am we met in the detachment interest room; wounded, limping and sore men in attendance.
Everyone was handed £2,000 cash, and signed for it, then told to sit back down.
‘OK,’ I began. ‘You all have two weeks off, so – in two weeks - I want to hear about holidays to nice places, some relaxation had, suntans displayed - no sexual diseases.’ They laughed. ‘Have a good rest, you all worked hard in Sierra Leone. Now ... fuck off, all of you.’
Everyone except Moran left, and we sat with tea mugs in hand, a mountain of paperwork to go through, forms for injured men, kit damaged or lost. And, as expected, the RSM wanted a curry that night - and all the gossip.
Before I left for the day I was handed a letter, from Doctor Sarah Melham, and I puzzled it at first till she explained that she had been a hostage in Liberia. She left a number, and would I call.
I called the next evening, then keenly drove down to Bristol to meet her – to be away from a quiet apartment, and a week later I had knickers and tampons in my bathroom, air fresheners on windowsills, the toilet paper sat in its holder, and my fridge was full of crap green food suitable for rabbits, not a microwave burger in sight. I had somehow become a house husband without noticing it.