by Geoff Wolak
‘Better than being out,’ they both agreed.
‘Don’t let the likes of Rizzo give you any shit, but he is a staff sergeant with us and has his own troop. Any problems, you let me know and I’ll kick his arse. I make the choices around here, no one else. And you’ll be involved with training the Externals as well. Just remind these fuckers what experience you have.’
‘Should be OK,’ Crab suggested. ‘We worked with them before many times. Got a place to live, canteen, pub down the road, what more do we need.’
‘If you blab down that pub you’ll be gone,’ I warned them. ‘Elkin was RTU after the Intel boys secretly taped him. They may do the same to you. Tomo got a £500 fine. So try not to get fined, and keep alert, people like to shoot at me.’
‘They found that fucker yet?’ Crab asked.
I considered my answer. ‘Not yet. When they do we’ll go visit him.’
The following week would bring in Externals, and on the Saturday afternoon – nursing a bit of a hangover, I started to outline a programme, the Lone Wolf Programme that Bob had been hinting at for almost two years.
Over the space of two hours, sat at the kitchen table, I drew up a list of requirements for selection, and then the programme itself, and by time I finished I had a twelve week course that I compressed into ten weeks, and it would be hard on the candidates.
Swifty sat with a tea. ‘Lone Wolf?’
‘Producing more men like you.’
‘Like me? You mean good looking?’
‘You’re definitely a lone wolf, and not good looking. Look what you were doing before I came along.’
‘Well, maybe.’ He looked at some of the detail. ‘You expect anyone to pass this, and live?’
‘It’s a specialised role. So, if they can’t pass it there’s no point in sending them off – they’d just screw it up and get killed.’
‘And using the Skyvan for drops?’
‘Why not, a plane is a plane. And you’ll be with the directing staff on much of this.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, it’s better suited to you than anyone else.’
I called Bob later, finding him gardening. ‘You like gardening?’
‘Helps me relax, helps me think.’
‘Listen, I just outlined a Lone Wolf training programme.’
‘Really? I’m all ears.’
‘Ten week course, very tough, be drop-outs. But at the end you have another Swifty. Question is, who do you want put through it?’
‘Smitty for sure, probably Tomo, Nicholson probably, then a few civvies I have in mind, some of ours, then any other version of Smitty languishing in some odd unit.’
‘Civvys might struggle.’
‘They’re weapons trained, survival, and fit and – well – supposed to be able to do this for real. Most are ex-military of course.’
‘Let’s call it the Lone Wolf Sniper Programme, that way not too many awkward questions, and I’ll put a few sniper instructors through it so they can help out in future. And how about the MOD sanction an arm badge, a wolf’s face. Others will see it and want to get fit and try it.’
‘Good idea, yes.’
‘So sell the outline to the MOD, we’d need them involved obviously, organise a meeting.’
‘When could you start?’
‘I have the stages and tests written down, but there would be some refinement after the first batch. Good thing is the new base, ideal for it. Oh, could you dig a trench down the side of the range, there is space. Five feet deep, ten feet wide, compact the sides then fill it with water.’
‘Easy enough, just a digger for a few days. You’d have people swim in it?’
‘In full kit, and stealthy.’
‘I see. Sounds horrid. OK, leave it with me, and we’ll meet next week to get this started, this is what I was after all along.’
‘We got there in the end, Bob. Watch out for those garden slugs.’
Sunday night, 8pm, our expected guests turned up in two groups, the Pathfinders and 2 Squadron; eight Pathfinders and eight 2 Squadron lads, plus Haines. I showed them the barracks, and they would all be on the ground floor together, bonding. Since they had all been in Sierra Leone together I was not too worried about clashes.
‘OK, listen up,’ I loudly called as they grabbed beds, kit down. They faced towards me. ‘You all know each other more or less, so you should get along here – smelly feet aside. Mister Haines is in charge of this room, so don’t fuck about.
‘Lights off at eleven, canteen is open from 7am in the morning, airfield is there to be run around – but don’t do so in your spare time. Sleep when you can, rest when you can, because you will be tired – and hurting.
‘Briefing for my lot every morning is 8.45am in the first hangar, the odd white building inside it. You’ll be there some of the time. There’s a 25yard range behind, a visitors centre for VIPs, a Killing House and pistol range, 600yard range, armoury, and fuck all else.
Houses over the way are for my lads, don’t go near them, and there are armed MPs patrolling, so don’t wander – you will be shot. White holiday homes have my lads in, some support staff. Be quiet around them.
‘There’s a pub at the end of the road, out of bounds unless I say so, and our NAAFI shop opens today, 8.30am to 8pm, so get some nibbles for late at night. Boiler works OK here, always hot water, keep this place clean.
‘We have a small medical bay, so shout if you’re hurt. Out of hours, get the MPs at the guardhouse. Inside the first hangar are vehicles, stores on the left, admin and CO on the right.
‘If you have blisters or strains, let us know, sit out some things for a day, this is not basic training and you’re all veterans. Tomorrow morning you have a run at 7am, breakfast after.’
I handed Haines a sheet. ‘This week’s programme is on there, directing staff will lead you all the way. Avoid a big breakfast, have a big evening meal instead, modest lunch.
‘And, by the end of the week, you should have sore feet and bad backs, but also have maybe learnt something new, and practised a few other things. Get settled in, and rest – you’ll need it.’
I remained for half an hour, many men chatted to, battles recalled, dodgy food in Sierra Leone and crying babies, a few men showing me their battle scars.
On the Monday morning I gave O’Leary my notes to type up, and he passed it to our admin corporal - who was now driving down each day; he lived near Gloucester anyhow.
At the end of the Echo briefing I began, ‘I’m creating a new training programme for Bob Staines and the MOD, called the Lone Wolf Programme.’
‘Lone Wolf?’ Slider queried.
‘It’s not for you lot, not all of you. It will be a kind of sniper course, with survival training, the aim being that a man could be dropped by himself behind the lines, walk sixty miles, blow up some place and shoot some people, then walk back out with a cheery smile and not so much as a scratch.’
They exchanged looks.
‘Sounds like SAS work,’ the Major noted. ‘They are supposed to be able to do that.’
‘What Bob wants is people suited to working alone, not in teams, and to practise such things, and some people doing the course will be spy types.’
‘Civvies?’ Rizzo asked.
‘Yes, but most are ex-military. It’s a ten week programme, and it’s a bitch. Smitty, Bob wants you on it, probably you Tomo, and Nicholson.’
‘I’m up for it, Boss,’ Nicholson offered.
‘Why just them?’ Rocko asked.
‘Rest of you would do the job well enough anyhow, Swifty certainly would. What Bob wants is for Smitty and others to do more infiltration work in the future.’
‘Tuxedo?’ Smitty asked.
‘Shallow grave in a forest,’ I told him. ‘So be sure what you sign up for.’
‘I’m up for it,’ Tomo put in.
‘Decision is down to Bob,’ I told them, ‘because the men would be available to him for naughty jobs someplace, “E” Squadron work. Anyw
ay, I’ll meet with Bob and make some plans, and when we have a group of ten or more we make a start.’
‘Be a group of one or two at the end,’ Swifty put in. ‘I’ve seen the detail.’
‘Oh, and Colonel Rawlson will be visiting today, don’t forget to stand up and salute or you get a punch to the head.’
I could see the look on Rizzo’s face. ‘And never forget, this is Echo Detachment of the SAS, he’s the boss, your wages comes through him. We are not an independent unit. Staff sergeants, keep your men in check around the colonel or I’ll dock your fucking wages. Dismissed.’
With the RAF facilities manager wandering by, I stopped and grabbed him. ‘Got a paper and pen?’
He made ready.
‘What I want ... is four ropes strung from the hangar roof, off to one side, thick rope for rope climbing, and those big old hairy crash mats, lots of them.’
He made a note.
‘Then, I want metal bars near the barracks, tall enough for a man to do pull-ups, several men at a time, lower bars for push-ups at an angle. And ... rust proof bars I guess would be a good idea because they’re outdoors. So coated in tin.’
After the Externals had run a few laps they were split into two groups, one on the long range with dated SLRs, one on the 25yard range, scores set and recorded.
A second run around the track in teams, teams swapping for an hour, both then to be on the range for a contest with AKMs, a sprint and shoot - at four targets per man, four stages to it starting at 500yards and moving down to 100yards, scores tallied.
When Rawlson appeared with the RSM I showed them around, which did not take long, Sgt Crab having to bite his lip and not say what was on his mind.
‘Nice little base,’ Rawlson noted. ‘I’m jealous.’
‘Visit whenever you like, sir, you’re the boss. And send men down to use the facilities when you like, just let us know.’
I took them to lunch in the pub, the RSM keen to chat – questions asked of deadly assassins.
Rawlson began, the Major at my side, ‘We could send down the Air Troops when the weather looked OK, they use Shobdon now and then – RAF are a pain, but if you have a good deal on this aircraft then we could save money. Air Troop have ... questioned the RAF’s ability to teach HALO – since the RAF staff have never done it for real – over enemy territory.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed. ‘Skyvan is free most weekdays, used on weekends, and there’re spare rooms for the lads, and the barracks.’
‘When the Ross-on-Wye range is booked they can come here, not that far,’ he noted. ‘But I think ... I think maybe there are other uses we could make of it, starting with new lads.
‘They need to be housed somewhere after Fort Wannabe, and they’d be off on courses mostly, but need a place to bed down and to get some training in when not on the courses, and they may foster a better attitude here – amongst your lot.’
I had to puzzle his purpose, and his agenda. ‘Be glad to help, sir, we could set them on the right path, and I can train them.’
‘And injured men. Got a lad with a broken arm, nothing to do,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Down here he can eat and sleep, but also walk around the track, help out, observe, feel involved. He’s sat at home moping at the moment.’
I smiled. ‘Send him down, sir, we’ll cheer him up.’
RSM put in, ‘Got some odd kit to store, don’t want to bin it, not much room in the new place. Stuff from the Boat House as well.’
‘It’s your base,’ I told him. ‘Oh, canoeing. We’re having a six hundred yard canal made up, men can canoe down it and back, keep them fit.’
The Colonel nodded. ‘There are uses we can make of it, yes. And if the weather is OK we can run mini-exercises; a parachute drop, range work, canoes or swimming, run around the track, Killing House.’
The Major put in, ‘We don’t use the facilities that much, sir. And we’d be away some of the time.’
‘Well, seems like this was a good move then,’ the Colonel told me, but always managed to sound as if he was not saying what was actually on his mind.
The Army Engineers were soon back, and with a yellow digger on a lorry, a deep trench soon being dug down the side of the range, an expected benefit being a new side wall to the range.
But the next day they came and told me that the local water table was ten feet lower, and any water in it would seep away – so they would use concrete, which would take longer. I left them to it, to make a six hundred yard narrow swimming pool for us.
Bob was on the phone that evening. ‘You had Rawlson down?’
‘How did you know that, Bob, you spying on us?’ I teased.
‘Gate camera is linked to here.’
‘Good to know how secure we are. Yes, our Regiment’s colonel did indeed pop in to see his men, and he wants to store some spare kit, an exercise now and then. But the one good thing he did suggest was that some of the new Regiment lads be housed with us for a while. That way I train them and they get a good attitude – maybe a few lone wolves in the pack to be selected early on.’
‘That could be a benefit, yes, and I have six soldiers and two Marines suitable for the Lone Wolf programme.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Had them in mind for a little while, two out of the Glass House.’
‘With the three here that may be enough for a first course to start with.’
‘Many will drop out,’ he suggested. ‘So maybe a few more.’
‘Might be an idea to test and refine the stages first, do better with the second batch, it’s only ten weeks.’
‘Then expect them soon. They’ll be glad to be gone from where they are right now.’
‘They have attitude?’
‘They’re younger versions of you, so yes.’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t have attitude, Bob; I was always right and the others were always wrong.’
The next morning, after the 7am run, the Externals were on the long range, 2inch and 81mm mortars fired, no loud bangs to scare the sheep, scores tallied.
Another run, lunch, and they were onto the GPMG, aiming at the 12inch metal plates which had been placed between the butts and the 100yard firing point, the men stripping and cleaning afterwards, Crab and Duffy helping out.
I was called away when another Portakabin turned up, followed by three vans and three cars. We were being invaded. The Major stepped out as familiar Signals and Intel staff approached.
I stood and waited.
A captain stopped in front of me. ‘Colonel Rawlson said it would be OK to camp out here, since space is a premium in the new base, and ... we’d rather be here anyhow. I spoke to Bob this morning and he said it was OK as well, so here we are. Where can we make a new home?’
I pointed to the side of the hangar next to the Stores Portakabin. ‘Nice and dry, close at hand. Will any of you lot want to live here?’
‘Funny you should say that, but my wife just kicked me out.’
I smiled widely, a look exchanged with the Major. ‘Houses over the way, still a few empty. Major will sort it. Or a cosy room rent free.’
‘Rent free sounds good, I have a divorce to pay for.’
After a run and a lunch break the Externals were sniping from 600yards, scores tallied, then running from the butts to the 500yard line, turning at each firing point and using two rounds, the Pathfinders still ahead, an extra lap penalty for 2 Squadron.
The next morning I stuck a wet finger in the air and looked up, a call made later. After breakfast the Skyvan landed, the Externals led across to it, puzzling what for – and soon realising. Static line chutes on, off they went, a quick circuit at 2,000 feet and out they went, and I breathed again when I saw all the round grey chutes open. Still, these guys were all supposed to be shit hot on the chutes by definition of the positions they were employed in.
Skyvan down, chutes bundled up in to the bags, the Skyvan left us, half the Externals led to the indoor pistol range, half to the outdoor range. After an hour they
swapped, scores again tallied.
After lunch they were back on the pistol ranges, scores improved, a great many rounds fired, pistols stripped and cleaned till fingers were sore.
As they finished and grouped the Skyvan was back, and they puzzled it; what again?
‘Yes,’ I shouted. ‘Again!’
Another line of fully-open grey chutes was a welcome relief, but as the last man floated down a light aircraft flew over the top of him, seeing him too late and then banking away. It gave the pilot a shock, but not as much as the lad watching the plane heading for him.
That evening they were given a map reading test, all classroom work, plus a test for officers that I had brought back from Greenwich.
“You have ten men, one is injured. You have a lorry and a jeep. The lorry is broken and should not travel above 15mph, leaking oil at a rate of 1pint per hour if driven above 30mph. Fuel available is this, roads are like this, and this bridge is sometimes out... rations left are...”
Heads were scratched as they worked it all out, miles to cover, then went back and did it again in teams when shouted at. When fuel was enough, oil leaks were a problem, rations running out, etc.
I had given the same test to Rocko and Rizzo, and they had struggled. Since the Externals fucked it up they all got three laps, and they moaned – not least because it started to rain.
Next came the hard part. They had to suffer two one-hour runs that next morning, followed by a quick contest on the long range before I led them to the northern edge of the airfield.
‘OK, what comes next is known as the hard routine, because ... it’s damned hard on your bodies and on your minds,’ I began as they stood around me.
I demonstrated how to make a hide under the grass, detailed what I had done in Northern Ireland, and gave them pointers on how to get comfy, to pee, to avoid muscle cramps, to eat.