by Geoff Wolak
That group was located some twenty miles from our hostages, and hostile to the gang with the hostages, and that gang was thirty miles from Roach – so we had three targets.
Moran said, ‘We don’t have to hit the gang the Ugandans want, we could just say we couldn’t find them.’
I nodded, studying the map.
Moran added, ‘We just fly back into Uganda. They’re not going to stop us and turn us around.’
‘We have permission from Rwanda and Tanzania to overfly their airspace from Kenya,’ I noted. ‘That ... would be best, but ... it’s a lot of miles.’
‘Three hundred almost,’ Moran noted. ‘From Uganda it’s forty miles – helicopter range.’
‘So we hit Roach first?’ Swifty asked.
I eased back. ‘Any action there might be heard about, white soldiers, the hostage takers getting jumpy.’
‘Split teams?’ he floated. ‘Roach won’t have an army with him.’
‘No, but the town Roach is in has Russian arms dealers,’ I said, Sasha lifting he head.
‘We say we are on the run,’ Sasha put in. ‘Ask these Russians for some help, then we look around for this man you want. He does not know me.’
‘That’s our ace in the hole,’ I told everyone. ‘And I have a way in with these Russians.’
‘So the aim is..?’ Moran floated.
‘Fivefold,’ I said. ‘First, get some hostages and a good newspaper headline. Second, keep the Ugandans happy, therefore the Foreign Office is happy. We kill Roach and his men, paperwork recovered, and we stage a HALO into some area where there are no gunmen, making it look like the very first British operational HALO, photos taken and in the press back here. Finally, we kill all those Russians.’
Swifty glanced at Sasha. ‘You may know some of them.’
‘Maybe, but I doubt it, I kept my own company.’
‘You OK to … you know … shoot them?’ Swifty pressed.
He shrugged. ‘They are criminals. What Wilco does is not about making money, it is about what is right. I learnt that lesson, and I changed.’
‘So five jobs,’ Moran noted with a sigh.
I put in, ‘Weather looks OK for tomorrow, HALO practise, at least fourteen thousand feet practice, no oxygen.’
‘Above fourteen thousand, without slow acclimatisation?’ Moran queried.
‘Brief periods are best,’ I assured him. ‘Not acclimatising. Plane holds its air, open and go, down fast enough not to be short-breathed. But Bob is getting some American oxygen kit, civvy stuff not military, so much better. You have two hundred seconds of air supposedly, three and a half minutes. Need to have oxygen in the plane though.’
I called Pete at home as the lads listened in. ‘Pete, what’s the highest you’ve dropped from in the UK?’
‘Summer group jump is fourteen thousand, but we have done sixteen with oxygen.’
‘You have oxygen kits?’
‘No, members had them, but then the association ruled them unsafe, a few accidents. Expensive as well.’
‘We’ll be practising HALO, fourteen thousand.’
‘Fourteen is OK, I’ve jumped from sixteen without oxygen, but it’s a risk.’
‘I have American tone altimeters,’ I told him.
‘Yeah, can we borrow them sometime?’ he keenly asked.
‘Sure. This week we’ll need you if the weather is OK. And some night jumps.’
Phone away, Moran said, ‘Why take risks for a good newspaper story?’
I shrugged. ‘Same as the other risks, same press advantage, top brass happy, currency in our hands. If it was military kit I may be concerned, but we’ll use our own, civvy kit and new kit bags, no weight on your body. Downside is ... land away from the kit bags and you have a pistol, nothing else.’
‘We stage this, away from the fighting?’ Swifty asked.
I nodded. ‘Ten miles from the fighting, walk in.’
‘What about the local militia?’ Moran asked. ‘What are they like?’
‘By all accounts, worse than those in Sierra Leone,’ I told him. ‘Not as good as the men in Liberia we faced.’
Sasha put in, ‘I have spoken to men who were selling guns in Congo, and these soldiers – they are boys, or men with no training, always with the drugs.’
Swifty suggested, ‘So why don’t we drop on their heads? At 4am they’ll be stoned and sleeping, a bomb wouldn’t wake them. If we land a quarter mile away there’s no chance of a reaction, probably no sentries posted.’
‘No good groups?’ Moran asked, and I shook my head. ‘So let’s drop on their heads then, and claim a live HALO drop – or two.’
‘Regular SAS will be out in Kenya if we need to borrow lads,’ I idly commented.
The next day, Skyvan on the taxiway, Pete, myself and the gang peered at the new HALO rig, a large brown bag with simple rope handles- knot at the end, small chute bag at the top - its altimeter flashing.
‘Simple,’ I began. ‘You hold the handles, lift it, move out the rear, four of us holding it. Weight is at the centre of the bag, surrounded by foam, then several layers of ... whatever that material is. We float down holding it, break at the tone, pull chutes. Bag opens its chute at 1,000ft, or whatever we set it to.
‘Also, there’s a drogue chute that stabilises the bag. Just pull it loose before we drop. Danger is spinning. First model had rings that you put your hand through, but if the chute deployed early it would pull your arm off. So we hold, we’re not attached.
‘Swifty, Moran, Rocko, we try this. Rizzo, Stretch, follow us in case we get into trouble.’
We filled the bag with four rifles wrapped in cloth, followed by ten ration packs, a Gerry can of water, and we figured that was enough for now. Stood around it, four of us lifted it.
‘Heavy fucking load,’ Swifty complained. ‘It’ll drop like a brick.’
‘The bag shape slows it,’ I insisted. ‘So it says in the book.’
Bag loaded to the rear of the Skyvan, kit checked, we took off with the Major stood watching with binoculars, soon sat on the aircraft’s aluminium benches as we climbed, fifteen minutes to top out at just over 14,000ft. Lights flashing, up we got, positions taken, left hand on the bag whilst knelt.
Ramp-door up, a roar of wind, and we lifted the heavy bag, side-stepped slowly to the rear, and with left hands holding the bag we were all facing almost backwards, right hands on team member shoulders.
Light on, nods exchanged, Rizzo and Stretch close behind, we eased back as far as we could go, hands firm on shoulders, and tipped into the sky. I held on as tight as I could, but it was not really necessary, and apart from someone’s legs bashing mine we settled down, positions adjusted.
The bag blocked my view of Rocko across it, but I could see Swifty and Moran off to the side, left hands on bag, right hands fluttering as we dropped, the bags small drogue chute quite stable. Then I noticed the small slats in the chute; it was designed not to flutter about.
My altimeter started to beep slowly at four thousand, pre-set, quicker at three thousand, a solid tone at two thousand and we let go – a margin of safety, knees bent slightly to move away, chutes pulled on a count of five from release.
I saw four canopies deployed, happy with that, the bag plummeting as I observed it, its chute soon deployed. All we had to do now was to follow it down.
Looking up, I could see two chutes higher than us and further out. Looking down, I could see our bag drifting towards the top of the farmer’s field, and it hit a good ten seconds before I drifted down next to it, a gentle touchdown on soft dirt.
Chute collected up, six lads came running, the bag inspected as I walked across, taking my goggles, gloves and helmet off.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Ration boxes are dented, Gerry can is OK,’ Stretch reported. He made a face. ‘No damage.’
‘That was easy,’ Moran said with a smile. ‘Stable enough platform.’
Back at the para Portakabin I found a smiling Pete, his mate ha
ving taken pictures with a telescopic lens. ‘Worked well,’ he enthused.
‘Take the next four lads up.’ I turned. ‘Slider, Henri, Jacque, Mahoney. Kit on, take-off when ready. Trick is to get the bag over the edge of the tail, rear two men holding shoulders, lean out and fall.’
With Pete swapping the chute on the bag, my chute now in a holdall, I closed in on the Major. ‘Works well, sir. Men down and kit down, but without men being weighed down individually.’
‘First operational HALO drop for us then soon, a good write-up.’
After a sip of cold water I sat in a chair on the grass with the Major, the day bright and sunny, and we observed as the Skyvan approached, the bag quite distinct once it had left the aircraft, and we followed it down, the Major observing through his binoculars.
The lads detached from the bag at the same time, just about, moved away and pulled, four canopies seen, the bag plummeting. And the bag kept going, its chute deploying just in time to stop the impact, just a few seconds before it hit.
‘Was that supposed to happen?’ the Major asked.
‘No!’
‘Automatic altimeter, and mechanical devices fail,’ he reminded me.
‘Rifles would be OK, rations, water would have spilled. So, no delicate kit in the bag.’
The lads drifted down and landed.
‘Rizzo, Stretch, two others, next go.’
I joined the Wolves at 5pm, having survived a second HALO drop myself, and I chatted to them as they enjoyed their evening meal. During the day they had been pushed and stressed - running laps of the range before stripping and assembling rifles, firing, then running some more, a good six hours of it – over and over and over. Faces were muddied and tired, the Wolves hungry.
For tonight they had map reading again, and had to follow a route on the OS survey maps with a finger whilst imagining what it looked like on the ground, then labelling up points that matched numbered black and white photos on a board at the front of the class. The bridge was easy to place, the valleys and gentle hills were not, but the clues were there.
After they finished, and with me helping out at 9pm, we went through their mistakes, and what they should have looked for. Walking them back, they asked about the HALO drops, all keenly interested.
At 10pm I was back at the para Portakabin, a crowd gathered – a few of the Wolves observing, a few of Pete’s expert friends along, the Major having returned, SIGINT observing.
Kitted up, I lugged the bag again to the Skyvan, one of Pete’s jumpers to have a low-light camera on his head and to snap us on the way down. Only now there would be faint green lights on each of us and a red light on the bag.
Lights flashed and the ramp-door powered up, so we shuffled forwards, took position again – left hands on the heavy bag, right hands awkwardly on shoulders, looks exchanged in dim light.
A quick shuffle, fall sideways, and we were out, hard to see at first if we were upside down or not, but we stabilised well enough. I could see the bag’s red light, green lights to the side of me.
Now would come the hard part, that of trusting the tone altimeters, but I could see street lights below, Cirencester dead ahead, even individual car headlights.
I had been counting in my head, and my count was confirmed by the tone for four thousand, and with a continuous tone I let go, knees bent slightly, backing away, count and pull, a tug and I was relieved.
Toggles grabbed, I turned quickly and shouted, my legs hitting someone else, but fortunately we did not tangle. This was the danger with a night drop. Settled, I checked for the green lights, found them, happy that they were not too close. ‘Watch those distances!’ I shouted.
Peering down, I could see the grey chute of the bag deployed - it was over the airfield, and as I drifted I could see I was heading south, so I turned towards the para Portakabin, watchful of people nearby, and I could see Swifty clear as day as the ground lights illuminated us.
I touched gently down but skidded on the wet grass, many hands helping me up. Goggles off, helmet off, I faced the drop team. ‘Who’s leg did it hit?’
‘Mine,’ said Swifty. ‘Could have tangled.’
I closed in on them. ‘So we need different counts. Break, two thousand pull, next man three, then four.’
He nodded as we carried the bundled chutes over. ‘Yeah, better separation.’
With the Skyvan down, Rizzo getting ready, I told him, ‘When you get the continuous tone, let go, but each man has a different count, or you could tangle. We bumped each other.’
He briefed his team.
As I sat with the Major the Skyvan lifted off.
‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Scary in the dark, but I trust the rig well enough, and you have the lights, but I bumped Swifty – could have tangled, so we need better separation.’
‘Tangle could kill you both,’ the Major warned, and I nodded, tea from an urn handed to me by Mouri.
‘New Zealand SAS jump with ten tonnes of kit,’ Mouri stated. ‘I don’t trust it, you spin easily enough. SLR was a big old rifle to have down your side.’
‘We’re the cutting edge here, new techniques,’ I told him. ‘You’ll have something to take back with you.’
The morning weather was no good for parachuting, but it was supposed to clear up later. It was not cold, but the Wolves were about to get wet – and damned uncomfortable with it.
With the Wolves lined up on the edge of the range, the ugly grey concrete canal behind them, sheep crazing in the next field, I began, ‘OK, yesterday you ran and fired, and that’s what it’s like in a war. We don’t push you through this to piss you off, we aim to simulate a war ... so that when you’re in that war you can cope. Fighting a battle is about running, getting down and back up, firing accurately, then doing more of the same over and over.
‘Learn now ... that adrenaline is the enemy. If you’re not fit, and if you’re scared, you pump adrenaline, and it helps in the short term. But it then robs you of energy. Trick is to stay calm, which is hard when someone is shooting at you, dogs after you, the prospect of being captured and tortured.
‘If you saw my lads in a battle you’d think them mad. They don’t panic, but they move quickly enough, keeping the adrenaline in check. You may be chased for ten miles across ten hours. That adrenaline will help for the first thirty minutes – then what. So, try and stay calm - but focused.
‘Right, as part of infiltration you need to know how to cross water, warm water and cold water, because bridges will be manned by enemy soldiers. If you get your map wet you’re screwed, get your matches wet and you’re screwed, clothes wet – and you freeze to death.
‘So, we have plastic bags for you, a variety of sizes. You will each now be given matches and maps, keep them on you for the rest of the programme, and we’ll check at various times if they are – sodden.’
‘Sodden?’
I shook my head at the man. ‘Wet.’
‘Oh, right sir.’
Maps and matches were handed out, along with large and small plastic bags and rubber bands.
‘OK, if you’re in the jungle, getting wet is not an issue, you’ll be wet all day and all night anyhow. And if you’re going to cross a stream in the jungle, best be fully clothed or something will bite you on the arse.
‘In a cold country, getting wet and then trying to sleep is a death sentence; cold water saps your body heat twenty times faster than otherwise - you’ll be hypothermic very quickly. Go to sleep cold and wet and you won’t wake up.
‘So, in a cold country, and if you’re not in contact with the enemy, you strip off, bag it up, swim, and then get dressed. You also use your bag as a float, and you get dressed quickly without getting mud all over you. Before putting boots on, check for stones.
‘When I say go, you will get a large plastic bag from Sergeant Crab here, and find a space on the canal, which we filled with man-eating Sticklebacks.’ They laughed. ‘Go!’
When lined up ready, five yards between
each man, I shouted, ‘In your own time, but not too slowly, cross the canal, rifles not getting wet.’
They stripped down – a variety of tattoos displayed, some having to remember to get boots off before trousers. They placed all their kit in the bags, eased into the cold water, rifles on top with varying degrees of success, and crossed. Up the other side they retrieved kit and got dressed.
When dressed and stood ready, I shouted, ‘Listen up. No need to have your webbing in the bag in a war, put it on and hold your rifle. If you’re attacked mid-stream you need your webbing. Strip, and come back across.’
Fifteen minutes later and all of their pale white bodies were across and dressed.
‘OK, take maps out and check them.’
They did, two lads admitting to some water, Duffy hammering in man-targets to the edge of the canal on the range side.
‘OK, you all have two magazines of ammo. When I say “go” you will walk to the top end of the canal in a line, same line you’re in now. You will take off your jacket and place it into the plastic bag with your webbing, you will keep the rest of your clothes on. At the top you will see footballs, so one per man in the plastic bag.
‘You will ease into the water, swim slowly down to us – it’s not deep water, and when you reach Sergeant Duffy you fire two rounds at the targets, and when you reach Sergeant Crab you fire two rounds into the targets. Do not ... touch the bottom with your feet!
‘Make ready weapons before you get in the water, safety on. Safety off, fire, safety on, swim, don’t shoot each other. When you get to the end, you get out, jacket on, webbing back on, plastic bag away – undamaged, run to the top, and start again, always a gap of ten yards in the water.
‘A word of warning. If you get your rifle wet and fire it, it may explode in your face. If you dip your rifle in the water, tap the barrel, breech open a half inch and lift it, magazine out, shake, back in. Be careful. Always point the barrel down and tap it for a moment before firing. If you make a mistake, ask for help. Better than killing yourself. On your marks ... go!’