by Geoff Wolak
Swifty poked my cheek, causing me to turn towards him. ‘Leave the lady doctors alone,’ he warned.
I shot him a look and greeted the various groups. 2 Squadron had brought their new sniper flight, and they were all ears about our new Elephant Guns. The Pathfinders had Valmets now, and a better attitude, a new captain in the team.
‘Captain is keen to get himself killed,’ a sergeant whispered to me. ‘Gung ho - and then some.’
‘A scrape or two will change his attitude,’ I whispered.
The sergeant touched his arm. ‘Fuck, yes. In Liberia a few weeks back he was like a wind-up toy, keen as fuck, thinks he’s bullet proof.’
‘Quiet down there now?’
‘Always some idiot with a gun. Fucking farmers take them off the dead blacks, sell them on the roadside for $10. Thousands of rifles sloshing around down there.’
I nodded. Phone out, I stepped away and called Monrovia. ‘It’s Papa Victor.’
‘Ah, how are you, my friend?’
‘Good. But can you do us a favour?’
‘What is that?’
‘Spend some money, quite a lot of money, and have your men in the north offer to buy guns at a good price from civilians, then take them all to Monrovia. There are too many armed civilians.’
‘A good idea, yes, I will get onto it, money is good now.’
‘Thanks. Papa Victor out.’
The studio men turned up, soon chatting to Max, and they were suitably dressed for a warmer climate, their MOD minders in tow, followed by our MOD propaganda unit – a title they insisted I not use, a letter of complaint to Colonel Dean threatened.
The flight was delayed an hour, which was typical RAF, but we eventually set off for Cyprus in a Tristar, a few men to drop off there, some supplies to drop off at RAF Akrotiri. We all got a leg stretch on the Cyprus tarmac as the sun hung low, soon heading south, many of the lads and ladies asleep.
I had paced myself, not wanting to be stewed when we got there, and I slept on UK time, making that suggestion firmly to a few groups – but with limited success seen. Sambo at least was pacing himself, Casper asleep.
We landed at Mombasa at 3am local time, coaches boarded, this time an escort of MPs in jeeps plus local police. Kit off the plane, and checked by those of us awake, and we set off for what would be a three hour drive of black featureless terrain, the final few miles looking like a bleak wilderness in the dark. At least it was early morning, and so hard-working kidnappers would all be asleep at home with their fat wives right about now.
Arriving, somewhere, we were checked by two armed Kenyan soldiers at the gate. The men were awake at least, but hardly with it, rifles held like toys. Inside, we drove down the length of a runway - making me wonder why we never landed here, past the apron and its large hangars, on half a mile to another gate and a small camp, no one about save a lone guard who could not be bothered to get up from his seat.
Buses hissing to a halt, I stepped down, assuming that these huts were ours, no one to greet us or to show us around. I approached the MP jeeps. ‘Sergeant, you know this base?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fucking marvellous, we could be anywhere.’ I jogged back to the gate guard, who at least stood and saluted. ‘What is the name of this camp?’
He pointed at the airfield. ‘Liboi Airfield, sir.’
Well at least it was the right name. I returned his salute and jogged back as men got off the coaches, backs stretched, yawns issued. ‘OK, let’s be having you! Get a move on!’
A tired bunch of servicemen and ladies grabbed kit in the light from the bus headlights and grabbed huts, dim yellow electric bulbs to aid them. I put Echo on the west side of the road, three huts, the rest on the other side, a row of ten huts.
A lady medic came and found me a few minutes later. ‘Sir, there’s a goat in our hut. And goat shit everywhere.’
‘Grab another hut if you can, we’ll clean it out tomorrow. And by that I mean you will.’
She did not look pleased.
I grabbed a bed with an old mattress, a filthy one, so having a poncho on top was a must. There were mozzie nets, but most had holes in, many looked burnt, the lads whinging.
‘Sambo, Jacque, get weapons, get on first stag – you look awake. Rest of you bed down for a few hours.’
Crates lugged in, boxes lugged in, weapon boxes lugged, and the clanking started as men checked weapons and loaded. Despite being dog tired they wanted to sleep with their weapons close to hand – and loaded.
With my own weapon in hand, bandolier and webbing on, I crossed the road to the RAF, the road still lit up from the coach’s headlights – the MPs still with us. ‘Mister Haines, men on stag as fast as possible, at least four.’
‘Just about have four awake,’ he quipped.
Outside, I was stopped by the MPs. ‘Sir, what are we supposed to be doing?’
‘What are you ... supposed to be doing?’ I countered with.
‘They said we’re at your disposal, sir.’
‘First I heard of it. You have kit?’
‘In the jeeps, sir.’
‘Are you awake, or do you need rest?’
‘We slept in the heat this afternoon, till about 9pm, then sat around. Not knackered yet, sir.’
‘Four of you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For now I want one jeep at the gate we came through, one down this road a way, stay sharp, and after sun-up find somewhere to bed down – probably be sharing, then you set a rotation. Don’t ask me about food and water, I was going to ask you.’
‘At the airport they said a man would come in the morning, sir.’
‘Would have been nice if the lazy bastard was here now. OK, carry on.’
The medics had off-loaded their kit and were laying down fully clothed, Morten making smoke to deter the mozzies. They had water bottles and rations at least.
The Pathfinders checked kit, drank their water and settled down, boots off. I found the Wolves in the hut next to mine, twelve of them, all getting organised with a quiet proficiency.
‘Man on stag straight away,’ I told them. ‘Hour at a time, rest of you can relax.’
‘Right, sir.’
I told the coach drivers they could depart, after I checked the buses and the luggage hold, and they turned around. It grew dark without the buses bright headlights, but the dawn was close at hand. I walked to the northern edge of the huts, seeing brick buildings in the distance, and what looked like a short range, two three-tonne lorries in the distance, a light on in a building. And it looked like we had a fence.
Walking the other way, I again got a salute from the gate guard, one of the RAF Regiment lads now here with the MP. I stood at the open gate and peered at the airfield, all the buildings positioned on the right, the west side, little on the east side. And there were no aircraft or helicopters, nothing at all, no movement, no vehicles. So much for the assets available to me.
Back at the huts I found another RAF Regiment gunner outside his hut, a Wolf stood guard outside their hut, Sambo and Jacque chatting to him. I was awake, so I led the three lads to the sand, and we sat cross legged, a brew on, chatting quietly, almost whispering as the heavens turned blue.
With the sun almost up, different men on stag, I got a good feel for the base. I climbed up a broken wall which sided the end hut and I stood tall. Behind the ten huts sat a sand barrier to the east, that was good, and two hundred yards on sat an isolated brick building, long and single storey, then the fence, but the fence had seen better days.
To the left sat a parade ground, or maybe a lorry park of tarmac, two old three-tonners parked beyond it, next to a collection of three small brick buildings. Beyond them sat a short firing range, some storage sheds.
Turning left, I followed the line of the fence, outside of which sat a long range, some dunes, a rusted and abandoned car or two. Behind our three huts sat four hundred yards of sandy scrub, and what looked like barbeque pits, then the fence. The other si
de of the fence was just scrubland, and a road.
Looking south, I could see the airfield, many brick buildings behind the hangars, a jeep seen driving around, so someone was at home. Looking left past the gate - MP jeep still parked there, the scrub stretched out to a collection of dilapidated old huts, glass missing, one hut half-burnt.
Peering east at the flat vista, towards the border – twelve miles they said, I could see parched sandy scrubland cut with neat rows of stubby trees, wondering what was being harvested on them. I could see water in a ditch, a tethered donkey some 600 yards away, a rusted old water tanker with no wheels beyond the donkey. At least we had a reasonable place to defend.
Stood perched there, I heard a drone and looked around, a spec on the horizon west becoming two specs, those specs coalescing into two Hercules on approach. They nosed down, levelled off and touched down smoothly, but as the first Hercules turned for the apron the drone hit the huts, so the sleeping occupants of those huts would now be whinging.
I clambered down and ran to the 2 Squadron hut. Haines was awake and yawning. ‘Get some men, get to the apron and protect the Hercules.’
‘No need.’
‘No need?’
‘16 Squadron men should be travelling with them. That’s their task.’
‘Nice to be told these things, I do like to be well informed,’ I quipped as I stepped out. I jogged to the gate, the black guard now missing. Stood there, I could see men and kit being unloaded from the back of the Hercules, lots of men and lots of kit, and two long-axle jeeps towing bogeys, the drone enough to wake the lads, even at this distance.
A few minutes later, and two Chinook loudly disturbed the peace, and now the lads would be moaning, not least because the Chinook decided to land on the tarmac square near the huts. “A” Squadron men emerged with weapons and heavy Bergens, a long line of them. I jogged down the road and waited at the last hut, soon recognising faces as the Chinook loudly lifted off and disappeared, boxes and crates left on the tarmac.
‘Find an empty hut, make a happy home,’ I shouted as they neared.
‘This where the action is?’ a troop sergeant asked me.
‘Careful what you wish for.’
Fishy greeted me and halted. ‘What’s the job?’
‘Hostages over the border. Get settled in, nothing will happen today, man on stag always.’
He nodded before following his troop into a hut.
Ginger appeared at my side, kitted out. ‘You awake?’ I asked him, looking him over.
‘I’m good at snatching sleep, feel OK now.’
‘Then come with me.’ We walked to the gate, the MPs still awake and with it, and they drove us around to the Hercules, who taxied off as we got there. Inside a hangar that was oddly devoid of anything aviation related, I stepped down and greeted a Fl Lt from 16 Squadron.
‘Where did you come from?’ I asked him after we shook.
‘Came down a few days ago, so we’ve acclimatised a bit. Sixteen men plus support, plus technicians, supplies, generators and water.’ He pointed at RAF personnel setting up camp beds. ‘That lot are aircraft support staff and logistics, they were already here in Kenya.’
‘Put a few men on stag straight away, this place is lacking Kenyan Army guards save the front gate.’
He shouted at a sergeant, his words echoing, men getting ready.
‘What supplies do you have?’
He pointed. ‘Two water bogeys, and they hold way more than you’d think. Fuel bogey for jeeps, fuel bogey for helos, starter motor, maintenance kit, boxes of ammo and rations, more to come, lots more. Exercise was cancelled and moved here, so more men on the way from the training grounds.’
‘We got here last night, no one to meet us, no one had a clue where we were.’
‘Bloody typical,’ he let out. ‘But you were supposed to get here today, after us I think.’
‘That would have been better, yes. See if you can put a man up high without him killing himself, start a rotation. And no one wanders around near the fence or beyond, not unless armed and in a group, no trips to the local town.’
‘Local town? Here? Ha! They’re not that daft, this is bandit country, border is ten miles. You going over there?’
‘After some hostages.’
‘Was only two weeks ago you were there?’
‘Yes, from a carrier. Half a job done, this is the second half. They said I had to do it properly this time.’
He smiled as I stepped back to the jeep. To the MPs I said, ‘Grab some Gerry cans later on, daily run from here, fresh water to the huts, rations for the lads. You grab a hut with your mates, set a rotation, trust no local fucker.’
‘We expecting trouble here, sir?’
‘Hope not, but the border is close by, and the kidnap gangs wander around this area. Say sharp at all times.’ We drove back.
Some of my lads were awake and with it, so we sat and cooked outside, chatting quietly.
Morten came over to us an hour later, the day warm. ‘Need a rifle with a silencer, for the goat.’
I pointed a Wolf to Morten, the Wolf clicking on his silencer whilst adopting a sinister grin. We heard the shot from within an empty hut, the poor goat dragged out, soon to be cooked and eaten.
Max stepped out, yawning.
‘Get with it,’ I loudly encouraged. ‘Or you may miss something!’
‘Anything happening?’
‘Not a sausage.’
‘I’ll take it easy then.’
Many men and many groups wandered past and asked about the operation here, and where things were – like showers, but I knew little.
At 2pm the Hercules were back, loudly announcing their arrival, more men and kit offloaded, an RAF Squadron Leader driving around to me as the roads shimmered in the heat.
I shook his hand.‘Welcome to the Ritz, sir.’
He laughed and took in the dusty huts, squinting in the bright sun. ‘I have a camp bed over there, unless I find something better.’
‘What are you tasked with, sir?’
‘The smooth running of this show, at least the RAF part. We have men from 16 Squadron, we have support staff for the helicopters and Hercules, but the Hercules are tasked for the Army not you, but they could be available some days and will do the supply runs, local town not an option for fresh eggs.’
I nodded. ‘Parachutes?’
‘They’re ready, men and chutes, waiting to come out late today. Oh, and we have a field cookery unit to come out, but Army.’
‘Nothing much will happen for a day or two, sir. But try and find a room for Intel and their kit.’
‘I’ll go look now, not least for somewhere for me to kip!’
He drove off, the sound of his jeep dying as the sound of the Chinooks increased. They landed on the tarmac, four long-axle jeeps driven out by “A” Squadron men and parked near the huts, GMPGs already fitted.
Fishy came and found me, dressed in his desert browns, sweat stains around his armpits. ‘We’re awake, if there’s something to be done?’
I grabbed two Elephant Guns. ‘Tungsten rounds, but you can practise with lead and brass rounds.’ Nicholson and Tomo were awake now, so I had them follow Fishy and his mates to the long range.
Finding Haines awake and with it, I issued him two Elephant Guns and ammo, and he took six men towards the long range as goat meat simmered. Half an hour later I got a plateful of meat to enjoy, sat on fragile wooden chairs behind the medics hut, men from various units wandering past to get some meat as the smell tempted everyone.
The MPs appeared with Gerry cans of water, so the process was working, the British Army had some semblance of order to it today. Sat there, the 2 Squadron lads moved about, sleeves rolled up, brown caps on heads, their webbing the same as my lads, the Pathfinders carbon copies, as were the Wolves. It was hard to tell who was Echo and who wasn’t.
As the sun set the Para School lads landed, twelve of them – bogeys full of chutes and kit, and they made a happy home in
the hangars next to their colleagues as Captain Harris drove over to me.
Harris reported, ‘We found a room, in fact loads of them. When you clean out the crap they’re good rooms, near the Air Traffic Control, some old desks and chairs – but a bit rotten. Water works, toilets just about flush.’
‘Make a happy home, and get a proper night’s kip, and tomorrow we make a start at some training.’
As he drove off with his colleagues, kit lugged, I grabbed Haines. ‘What you got organised around these huts?’
‘Men in pairs, north-south-east-west, dug in behind something solid, rotation set-up, more on at night than during the day – we know our stuff.’
I nodded. ‘There are brick buildings behind the ATC, so find Captain Harris in those buildings and stick two men over there on rotation. If they can get up high, have them issued with the two Elephant Guns as well, chat to 16 Squadron - and avoid shooting at each other.’
He called names of men, kit to be packed up. Radio call received, and he faced me. ‘Suspicious movement.’ He pointed towards the old three-tonner lorries, so we both jogged that way.
As we crossed the tarmac square he reported, ‘Civvies, maybe dickers on the wire.’ He pointed. ‘I saw some Kenyan Army in those brick buildings earlier.’
We halted at the fence, behind a small waist-high sand barrier, his pair of men thirty yards over my right shoulder, hidden and facing out. I adopted my rifle, Haines the same, no one seen.
I woke to find that I was being dragged, faces, upside down faces, men shouting, a bad taste in my mouth. They dragged me over something hard, and stopped.
A face, upside down. ‘Wilco, you hear me?’ The voice sounded familiar.
A bright light, shone in both eyes, my head examined. For a moment I was enjoying the nice head massage. Lifted up, water on my face, men seen running. Water in my mouth, I spat it out, more swallowed.
Swifty asked, ‘You still with us?’
‘Wha ... what happened?’
‘Dickers on the wire, a bomb, they set it off, or it went off too soon, because there’re arms and legs and intestines spread far and wide. Blast knocked you off your feet, no cuts.’