by Geoff Wolak
‘Fine, Samantha is making assessments.’
The next morning the gang were back to normal, more or less. After breakfast I had them line up outside. ‘Rocko, Slider, take four of the Wolves out on patrol, back for sundown, get them moving as you want them moving – teach them. Rizzo, Stretch, same deal. Swifty, Mahoney, four as well. And coordinate with Mister Haines as to where you’re headed – don’t shoot each other.
‘Captain Moran, make use of Crab and Duffy, take our Pathfinders and Externals. Run, shoot, clean, run, shoot, clean some more. Tomorrow, parachute drills if we have the chutes.
‘Henri, Jacque, Salties, take some 2 Squadron lads - that can actually stand up, and patrol north around the mines, back for sundown. To your assigned duties ... fall out.’
I walked with the lads across to the Wolves, grabbing Sasha and his team as they finished breakfast in the sand. ‘Take your team out on patrol, due east, back for sundown.’
The groups formed up, and they kicked up dust as they headed to the gate, Crab and Duffy whinging that they had nothing to do till I explained about the Externals.’
In the command room I sat with the Major, paperwork to go through, reports to write up, Samantha whinging that she had no one left to interview – and that I had very dirty nails.
‘Could go out on patrol with them,’ I suggested, getting squinted at. ‘They’ll be back at sundown, so grab them then.’
Later, I thanked the French as they dragged their kit to the planes, and myself and the Major watched them take off, soon just specs on the horizon north.
Walking back, he said, ‘Colonel Roach met with a grisly end, apparently.’
‘Some falling out with our target, Jamal. Around here they don’t take you to court for bad debts.’
‘Bad business, guns for hire,’ he said. ‘But a few do it.’
‘Good job we have morality on our side, eh?’ I quipped, getting a look.
The next day a Hercules dropped off copies of The Sun newspaper, and I sat reading about our glorious rescue; they had us down as being in support, but did mention the HALO in. Only seeing it on paper now brought home the scale of it, all of the various teams coordinating. I handed the paper to the Major.
‘Greatest raid ever,’ the French media is labelling it, the Major pointed out. ‘And it was complex, many units, lot could have gone wrong.’
‘Lots did go wrong. We nearly landed on a soccer pitch, late night match in progress. And we were nearly spotted. And that ambush could have been a bloodbath. From what I’ve heard, many of the regulars were positioned two hundred yards off. I would have been twenty yards off that road, hostages may be alive today.’
‘Politics getting in the way, handing this to the French,’ the Major scoffed.
‘It’s all about politics, sir. You think the French ministers give a fuck about those hostages?’
‘When did you get to be so cynical?’
I stared ahead for a moment. ‘Sometime after my first London marathon, sir.’
Four days later we were ordered back, the Prime Minister and French President due to meet us at Brize Norton the following week. Kit was dusted off and packed up, men had a shave, and we flew off in two Hercules towards Kenya.
Subdued now, we spent the night there, our metal crates retrieved, checked and packed, locked and dispatched, and we boarded two commercial flights from Nairobi the next day, the planes taking soldiers back to the UK, all fresh faced young men.
No one figured out who we were, and we disembarked at Brize Norton in the rain at 3am, long lines of soldiers waiting to be met by coaches. Green RAF buses took us the short distance to the base, MP Peter on the gate – a smile and a wave, and I claimed a bed that felt strange.
I slept for an hour, and then found Swifty downstairs sat with a tea. I made one without saying a word, and sat.
After a while, I said, ‘Where’d the milk come from?’
‘Note from Peter the cop. Bread as well. No girl in my bed – it was cold.’
I smiled, and sipped my tea. ‘This job would be so much easier if we didn’t have to come home.’
He nodded.
I added, ‘Highs and lows.’
‘Back at it tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is Saturday, knobber.’
‘It is. Fuck. Day off then.’ After a moment he said, ‘Curry.’
I sipped my tea. ‘You bet your life on it. And a few beers.’
After a minute, he said, ‘Barbed wire round the back.’
‘We have a high fence at the gate, barbed wire here, open at the range and the north end.’
Swifty considered that. ‘Vikings.’
‘What?’ I puzzled.
‘We have defences to the east only. Keep the fucking Vikings out.’
‘You, Mister, get some fucking rest, that’s an order.’
Saturday lunchtime I sat with Sasha, asking him what he wanted to do in the future. Bob had already given him some hints about things he might do for us in the future, but nothing too specific. Sasha indicated that very much wanted to train with me.
I stepped out and called Bob. ‘Gardening again?’
‘How did you know?’ he joked.
‘Listen, Sasha is not sure what you have planned for him in the near future.’
‘Fact is ... we have some ideas, maybe some undercover work, but we don’t want to send him back into Russia, he’s wanted there, so the work is limited.’
‘So how about he stays with me; he’s doing a good job of training the Wolves and preparing the Russian speakers for undercover work.’
‘Well, I considered that, but at some point the fact of who is may come out – some awkward questions, and visiting other military bases in the UK might be an issue.’
‘I can isolate him, keep him under wraps here.’
‘For now, keep him with you and training, yes, but we have a role in mind, and that’s training some of our field agents,’ Bob explained.
‘He’s here when you need him. And my Russian speakers could be camp guards up at Stalag Luft 13. Stick your spies in and have them shouted at in Russian!’
‘Already on the cards, that scenario.’
‘How’s Sandra?’
‘We flew her back, checked over, she’s on medical leave. How would you assess her?’
‘More aggression than ability; she might go off on one. I’d be concerned that if I sent her on a job she might get sidetracked. If she saw some guy beating his wife she’d get involved instead of hiding her identity.’
‘Pity, we had hopes for her, but you’re not wrong. I’ll see you Monday.’
Monday morning, and we made the short trip across to Brize Norton in two buses, Wolves with us, police escorts front and back. And, as usual, we were scruffy, the Major in his No.1 uniform.
The bus dropped us in front of the Parachute School hangar since it was raining and the show would kick off inside. We formed up, the Wolves formed up under Crab and Duffy, and we wandered around in a slovenly manner.
Inside, we found 2 Squadron dressed smart, their CO with them, and I shook his hand and smiled. The medics were all smart in the No.1 uniforms, Morten at the front. The odd-ball pilots stood together, next to the regular Hercules pilots, and across the way stood two troops of “A” Squadron with Major Chalmers.
I positioned my rabble, and we waited, the base commander soon rounding the corner with the Air Commodore, General Dennet and the JIC, Bob and his assistant, RAF press officer in tow – all the hats damp and shining.
I called my rabble to attention and saluted as the senior officers neared, a small jet just landing. ‘Didn’t come all this way just for us?’ I teased.
The Air Commodore smiled and shook my hand. ‘Well done, another good spread in the papers.’
‘And you took your new recruits with you,’ Dennet put in.
‘Yes, sir, on-the-job training. But they did well, none killed.’
‘Bit of a risk,’ he noted.
‘Nothing comp
ared to the risks they take driving on British roads, sir.’
‘Indeed. And now they’ll complete their training?’
‘Yes, sir, now it gets tough for them.’
We all turned as two cars came around, the PM and his assistant in one, the French president and his team in another, small flags blowing in the breeze. The top brass held back, chatting to my lads as I led the politicians first to “A” Squadron, explaining their role, onto the pilots, the medics, 2 Squadron, and finally my rabble.
Moran gave an explanation of the HALO drop to the French as the rest of us huddled, talk of kit and men.
Finally, and oddly enough, the French called out Henri and Jacque by name and rank, who stamped to attention and saluted. Small blue boxed handed over, the President pinned medals on them and shook their hands. They saluted again, and fell in.
I was soon puzzling being called forwards, the President soon pinning a medal on me. I was now a Legion of Honour recipient, grade five – a Knight, for services to France, the top brass clapping. I thanked the President before he closed in on Henri and Jacque, a little chit chat.
I showed Bob my medal. ‘You don’t give me medals,’ I teased.
‘You got our highest award,’ he pointed out.
‘Invent another one,’ I told him.
With the damp cars reclaimed - men stood with umbrellas for the VIPs, the politicians headed off to complete their busy schedules so I showed the gang my medal.
‘How come we didn’t get a fucking medal?’ Rocko complained.
‘Too ugly, for one,’ I told him.
Dragged away, the top brass led me to the Parachute School’s tea room, and closed the door.
Dennet asked, ‘What’s your assessment of regular SAS these days?’
‘They’re much better under Colonel Rawlson, on the right track, sir.’
‘One of theirs shot the other!’ Dennet pointed out, and loudly.
‘Well, apart from that.’
‘What do you need?’ he asked, now calmer.
I thumbed over my shoulder whilst addressing the Air Commodore. ‘The pilots that came with us, they’re about to quit, pissed off, past their sell by dates. How about you assign them to us?’
Mister Loughton responded, ‘If, as you say, they’re ... in their twilight years, then I’ll chat to them, yes.’
I focused on Bob. ‘How about a Skyvan on lease, as well as the other one, and we make use of it.’
‘Cheap enough on lease,’ he responded.
‘We can practise inserting a few teams in one go,’ I told them. I faced the Air Commodore. ‘And how about ... five day courses for all aircrews, with us.’
‘Don’t go breaking them,’ he warned.
‘They sometimes crash-land behind the lines, so they need to shoot, walk and fight. And time in our mock prison. Your two Skyvan pilots were ... concerned about the dangers.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll create a test programme.’
‘Anything else?’ General Dennet asked.
‘Luck, sir, it all comes down to luck. On my HALO insert the wind took us, and we were headed for a floodlight soccer pitch – a game in progress!’
They laughed.
‘Seems that your base attack and Colonel Roach were linked,’ General Dennet floated.
‘Yes, sir, but Roach is dead, so ... maybe an end to the matter.’
‘Is anyone likely to accuse your lot of his untimely demise?’ General Dennet pushed.
‘No, sir, local witnesses reported the warlord Jamal killing Roach. We were a long way off at the time, lots of witnesses.’
‘Good to know,’ General Dennet stated.
With the top brass gone, we stood in groups and chatted as we waited for buses, and I showed off my medal. Moving to the Skyvan pilots, I said, ‘Wanna come work for me?’
‘How?’ they puzzled.
‘RAF would assign you, open ended contract.’
‘What would we do all day?’ they puzzled.
‘Pilot the Skyvan when we need it, rest of the time you’d get some weapons practise in, keep fit.’
‘We’re not twenty-one anymore!’
‘Think about it.’
They exchanged looks.
Later that day I stood at the hangar mouth at GL4 watching the rain, my poor damp Wolves running around the perimeter track, and today they were tackling twenty miles, a ramp up in the pressure. Swifty, Moran and Mahoney drew level with me.
‘No flying today,’ Swifty noted, taking in the dark and threatening clouds.
An MP jeep pulled up. First out was an excitable pup being held by the MP who had lost a dog. ‘Your latest recruit, sir, more willing than able,’ he said with a smile.
The pup examined the faces.
‘A bit ... short,’ Swifty pointed out.
‘No opposing thumbs,’ Mahoney mentioned. ‘No good for rope climbing or firing a rifle.’
‘Head’s the wrong shape for a helmet,’ Moran added.
‘A year and he’ll be biting intruders,’ the MP explained.
‘We can wait a year,’ Swifty suggested. He faced me. ‘Anything on this year?’
I shook my head, the pup licking my chin.
With the Land Rover driving off into the rain, we watched it go.
‘Tenner says it pisses on his leg,’ Swifty offered.
‘We could leave a turd on someone’s desk and blame the pup,’ Mahoney suggested.
‘What’s the weather forecast for tomorrow?’ Moran asked.
‘Rain all week,’ I responded, and sighed. ‘Still, the Wolves are indoors mostly this week, intensive first aid.’