by Geoff Wolak
‘That could work,’ Moran agreed, rounds pinging off rocks or cracking overhead.
Twenty minutes later and my radio crackled. ‘Hercules for Wilco, do you read?’
Surprised, as were the lads, I clicked on my radio and scanned the sky. ‘Wilco here, how’re you reaching me on this frequency, over?’
‘We got a rough idea of your usual frequencies, and our aircraft radio is clever as fuck. And we have three of them, often used for reaching ground controllers. We’re five minutes out, what’s the situation, over?’
‘We’re at the southern end of the straight road, in the rocks, pinned down, local fighters three hundred yards further south. Do not land as it stands, it’s not clear, over.’
‘Hercules for Wilco, we have your lads in the doors with GPMGs, going to try and dislodge the local fighters. Do they have rockets or RPGs?’
‘Negative on rockets, no RPGs seen.’
‘Standby.’
‘There,’ Rizzo said, pointing, and we all popped heads up and looked.
The Hercules came in from south of the local fighters, about five hundred feet off the deck. It banked hard over, and we could see the rear side door open. Squinting at the fighter’s position, we could see dirt thrown up; they were getting them.
As the Hercules flew over, all faces looking up, we could see men sat on the tail gate and firing. A cheer went up, wide silly smiles adopted.
‘Second Hercules,’ Swifty shouted, pointing, and we could see the second bird at about a thousand feet and circling.
‘Maximum effort! Open fire!’ I shouted as the first Hercules came back around, the team pumping out a great many rounds. The aircraft banked over, the fighters hit again, Hercules roaring over us a moment later.
‘Hercules for Wilco, they seem to be dead, or running away. Now’s our chance, second aircraft coming in, it has a jeep with your lads in it. They’ll cover you, we’ll do another pass when you board, over.’
‘Roger that.’ I eased up. ‘Get ready to run. Rocko, carry Elkin when we move.’
‘I can walk and run!’ Elkin insisted.
‘Good man. Get ready.’
Peering up, we could see the second Hercules come diving in from height, almost vertical, pulling up at the last minute and slowing, touching down with a blast of sand and a roar of reverse engines. The ramp was already down, and a jeep burst out, speeding towards us.
‘Get ready!’ I called.
The jeep, with Sergeant Crab driving and two men on GPMGs, approached at speed, then skidded to a juddering halt, turning side on just past us.
‘Now!’ I shouted. ‘Run!’
The GPMGs opened up with a loud crackle, a withering fire laid down as we made a mad two hundred yard dash down the road, the first Hercules coming over again.
I halted several times, encouraging the hostages on, keeping an eye on Elkin, but he was doing OK, and we made it to the ramp whilst being blasted with sand, a roar in our ears, two troopers with M16s stood ready as we ran up the ramp. I waited, last man in, and faced towards Crab. When I saw him glance my way I waved him back.
He did a slow three point turn and then sped towards us, the guy in the back still firing. Running up the ramp, I turned back and waited, unloading my rifle, others now copying, and I knelt. Crab burst up the ramp and hit the brakes in time, the lads with M16s emptying their magazines down the road as we started moving.
The ramp started rising as the roar increased and we held on, crewman rushing to secure the jeep with straps. The nose lifted in no time, and we climbed gently, no sudden turns, just a very gentle bank around, the pilot taking no chances that the jeep might slip and alter his trim.
Blowing out, I slapped Crab on the shoulder, a nod issued as thanks, and he gripped my arm, a smile exchanged. He picked up a first aid kit, but I waved him off.
Walking up and down the cabin, I checked that no one had been hit during our sprint, and I performed a head count twice. They were, thankfully, all accounted for.
I grabbed Smurf by the shoulder and nodded a smile, but he seemed distant, and looked worried – which worried me.
We had hardly settled down before we hit the runway, and from the windows I could see flashing blue lights, police and ambulances. I took weapons off Bateman, Slider and Elkin, placing them in the jeep, their webbing off, Rocko copying.
With the ramp down we walked out, and I directed those with wounds to the ambulances, as well as the hostages – they would need a check over. With Sergeant Crab, I led the remainder of my dusty team to the Major, stood now with Captain Harris and a few of the Intel staff, local police milling around.
‘Still in one piece?’ the Major asked, looking me over.
‘A few minor wounds, nothing serious, sir. We were lucky.’
‘You lost two jeeps!’
‘That happens when you drive over a mine,’ I loudly and sarcastically told him.
‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed. ‘So don’t drive over mines. I’m sending the bill to Bob Staines.’
I said, ‘Sounds fair, it was his operation.’ I faced Crab. ‘Thanks, you saved our arses. Would have been a long day otherwise.’
‘Bit of a first, ground attack Hercules!’ he noted.
‘Major, I’ll be recommending those pilots for an award. They don’t often do hot extractions.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve not heard of one. Still, if they can drop cement and kill people they can put GPMGs in doors.’
‘The American Hercules have a pod mounting for guns,’ Crab pointed out as we walked to a waiting bus. ‘We’ll have to get some for next time.’
I dumped my dusty webbing on a table as the lads slowly ambled past, my bed just a bunch of rusted springs, my rifle down and left unattended, not that I cared too much. Easing off my jacket and my smelly shirt, my arms protested the movement, and I wondered when I had jarred and bruised my arms. Kit off, dusty boots off, I padded to the showers.
After a lukewarm shower, little more than a trickle, I inspected my own wounds in a cracked old mirror as the lads cleaned up, cream in my wounds, a few plasters stuck on, and we all got some much needed sleep, regulars on stag for us.
At 11pm I was awake, and whilst trying to be quiet I wandered out barefoot, smelly shirt back on, and I found the make-do cafe and helped myself to tea and local cake, sitting with the Major and Captain Harris.
‘Picked up a few new scrapes?’ the Major asked me.
‘Nothing serious, sir,’ I replied. ‘They opened up on us with fifty cal, lots of ricochet. Everyone got some. Elkin got a nasty leg wound when we drove over a mine, red hot metal in his calf muscle.’
‘His CO won’t be happy,’ the Major noted.
‘Elkin will be back to duty in a few weeks,’ I suggested. ‘Hostage got a scrape, so did Bateman, Rocko got some shit in the back, Slider got it in the arse cheek. Was going OK, then a jeep we pushed into a ravine caught fire, gave us away, then we pasted them at night - an ambush, but leaving we hit a mine. After that we had to walk, and then we hijacked a lorry. Was going well till we hit a checkpoint, got spotted.’
‘And if the Hercules had not touched down?’ Captain Harris asked.
‘We would have flanked the local fighters after dark, nicked their jeeps and drove back, but ... eighty miles of mountain road – we’d have lost a few men, or a lot of men.’ I focused on the Major. ‘Any local helos worth a damn?’
‘We considered those old Mi2s, till I saw the state of them up close. And the pilots were nervous about taking them up, never a good sign.’
‘Job like this needed helo support,’ I suggested. ‘I should have delayed it, will do next time. We were lucky, sir, damned lucky.’
‘You got two hostages, a real bonus, killed the main man and a hundred bad boys, so it’s a result. As for what nearly went wrong – well, over the years we’ve nearly lost a lot of men. We’ll report it as a great victory, and I’m sure that Bob Staines has already leaked the story.’
I smiled widely, no
dding my head.
The next morning our wounded returned to us, minor surgery having been undertaken at the local hospital, fresh pads on wounds. They wore flimsy blue gowns, their dirty clothes in bags, the piss taken out of them when they stepped down from the ambulance.
Being barked at by the Major we packed up in a hurry, checked everything, performed a head count, and whilst tired and subdued we boarded the Hercules for the long uncomfortable ride back. At Brize Norton we were met by the RSM, buses laid on, our kit lugged for us, and we trundled down the M4 in the rain, the RSM passing me a newspaper.
It detailed the operation as a storming SAS success. It also detailed the burnt-out decoy vehicles, the Hercules landing on a road, and the Hercules ‘rescue’ of wounded men, lots of graphics used. Bob was milking it for all it was worth.
At the base, Bob was waiting, and he both greeted us and thanked us as we left the coach, most heading off home straight away – all told that they were not needed till Monday. I made Bob a tea in the Detachment Interest Room with O’Leary and Captain Moran, still in my dusty and smelly uniform.
‘Another good result,’ Bob noted.
‘Nearly a bad result,’ I countered with. ‘We were lucky, drove over a mine. If it had been an anti-tank mine you’d be five men down.’
‘Yes, that was lucky,’ he agreed.
‘Job needed better planning and more time,’ I warned them. ‘Our luck will run out soon enough if we rush into these things.’
‘Russia House ... keep expressing their concerns,’ Bob noted. ‘They want Petrov in one piece.’
‘If the question was ... quit the Army and just do Petrov, I’d say no.’ I held my stare on him.
‘I understand that, wasn’t suggesting it. They’ll have to make do. Your successes in Northern Ireland and West Africa are too valuable.’
I nodded. ‘Mister O’Leary. Captain.’ I focused on him. ‘Next time you get a call from Bob about a job, you don’t just alert the team. You alert me, Captain Moran here, as well as Major Bradley – since he often gives us support. We’ll then decide if the job is doable, and what we need.’ I waited.
He glanced at Bob. ‘Sure,’ he timidly got out.
I focused on Bob. ‘If you want good results spread across the next few years, we need better planning, some careful thought. This job could have lost half the men, and me – and then you’d be screwed, Bob.’
‘I’m open to suggestions, we’ll hold a debrief and a brain storming session.’
I nodded, sipping my tea. ‘Unfortunately, we handle tricky jobs, little planning, not much backup, so ... on average every job is a case of ... make it up as we go, nature of what we do. But we should try and reduce the risks as best as possible, save bad headlines for you, Bob. And yes, a debrief would be helpful.’
‘Elkin’s wound?’ Bob asked.
‘Couple of weeks and he should be fine.’
‘Slider?’
‘Sore arse for a few weeks, no complications. Rocko will be OK after some rest, Bateman may need a skin graft on his scrape.’
‘They all did OK?’ Bob asked.
‘Fine, I’ve got no complaints, they didn’t bitch and moan, they did what I asked when I asked.’
‘Bateman and Robinson?’ Bob pressed.
‘Fine, held their own, couldn’t separate them from the rest. Elkin was fine till he got hit, then he soldiered on without bitching about it. They’re a good team.’
Bob focused on Moran. ‘Any ... thoughts, Captain?’
‘A few for the debrief, yes, but no complaints, they did well on a tricky job. No clashes of personalities.’
‘You and Wilco ... don’t clash?’ Bob tentatively asked.
Moran smiled. ‘No, and I’m sure he’d hit me if we did. I don’t always see what he sees, but he does have a sixth sense for trouble and, well ... the lads would always follow his suggestion over mine I’m sure.’
I put in, ‘In time, Captain, they’ll follow you, you’re good at the job, much better than the rest of the captains here. You’ve not been at this long, so don’t get disheartened by my leadership over yours. In time ... you’ll be teaching troopers who have less experience than you of action, when most of the time the officers around here have no experience of action.’
I focused on Bob. ‘I think ... what we need ... is a function in London for all those involved, plus the pilots and crew. Meal and drinks on you, senior officers present, chance to thank everyone and ... help them gel.’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Bob enthused.
‘And we need some joint exercises, Hercules boys, a closer working relationship. For next time. Oh, and recommend the Hercules crew for a minor award would you, they deserve it.’
Getting home after it got dark, smelly kit in the washing machine, I enjoyed a long hot shower, a microwave burger, and I sat watching the TV for a few hours till my eyes started to close. Door checked, pistol out, I slipped into cool sheets and went out like a light.
The next morning I wandered into the base in jeans and t-shirt, but still wearing my pistol out of habit, and I found Captain Moran tackling paperwork. He was also in civvy clothes.
‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’ I asked him as I got the kettle on.
‘She’s in work, I was bored, and ... I wanted to get this done now.’
I assisted with the paperwork for an hour, the RSM coming over and giving me a lesson on the various forms, Moran also learning how things were done.
Taking a break, I took the RSM out for a long lunch and gave him the detail of the operation. Back at base, I noticed Smurf in civvys. His expression worried me as I closed in on him.
‘Got a minute?’ he asked.
I just stood staring back at him, half an idea what this was about.
‘I’m ... leaving the Detachment, and ... the Regiment. You know, resigning.’
I felt the emptiness in my chest. He had been my first friend here, and my longest, the one guy I could trust. ‘I don’t want you to go – and I’m in charge.’
He took a moment. ‘My arm.’
I sighed. ‘Getting worse?’
‘Never got better. On the last job ... I couldn’t fire a few times, but I ... covered it up. Might ... might get someone killed soon. Sometimes I can hardly pick up a pistol.’
I nodded, but did not want to give up on him. ‘Bob could have some work for you, spy work.’
Smurf shook his head. ‘I’m going home,’ he simply stated.
‘I’ll make sure you get compensation.’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t matter.’ He nodded, looking embarrassed for himself, and wandered off, leaving me staring after him.
Taking out my mobile, I called Bob. ‘It’s Wilco, got a minute.’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘Smurf has quit, his arm never fully recovered, he can’t hardly hold a pistol by all accounts.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Move him back to the Regiment for a day, get him a medical discharge, some compensation through the usual channels. I’m not asking for extra compensation, just ... what would have been normal.’
‘I’ll sort it, leave it with me. His ... state of mind?’
‘Not good, but he won’t blab about us. He’d never do anything against me.’
Inside, I found Moran, Harris and O’Leary tackling the mountain of paperwork our last job had created. I stood over them, and they looked up. ‘Smurf has quit, his arm. He’ll go back to the Regiment for a day and then be discharged on medical grounds. So ... whatever particular form that is, we needed it filled in.’
‘Seemed OK on the last job,’ Moran puzzled.
‘He’s been hiding it, and I helped a bit, but ... it’s worse than he told me. He may not be able to squeeze a trigger when the time comes. So ... he’s left us.’
‘You and he were close,’ Harris noted.
‘He was my closest friend from the start, be odd for while without him.’
The next evening, Frida
y, a bunch of us met for a curry, but Smurf’s leaving took the edge off our celebrations.
On the Saturday morning Bob called me. ‘Wilco, some news ... unfortunately, from the Devon police. It’s ... Smurf.’
I heaved a sigh, tipping my head back. And I waited.
Bob continued, ‘He ... got drunk, punched some guy in a bar near Taunton and busted him up by all accounts – Smurf has family near there I think – drove off drunk at high speed. Police say ... he hit a wall at a hundred miles an hour, so ... no accident.’
I closed my eyes. ‘No, no accident. Thanks for telling me. I’ll ... let the lads know.’
‘I’m down Monday for the debrief. See you then.’
Stood at the window, I took in the green hills, the clouds rushing by, and I considered the high alcohol-fuelled rate of suicide amongst ex-SAS troopers. I had once seen the stats, and I had heard all the stories, and now I knew – it was about being a broken toy. One week you were top of the game, an exciting and challenging life, and the next week you were a nobody, getting picked on in a local bar.
I wondered what they said, what Smurf might have said, or would have liked to say: “Hey, I was SAS last week, the best, travelled the world, did things you’d never do, but now ... now I’m a bit wounded and getting no respect from any fucker.”
I called Rizzo and Swifty and let them know, they had known him a long time, and I drove around to see Dave, known as Didgy for some reason, Smurf’s flatmate. The news came as a shock, and we sat with tea mugs for a while, little said, most of Smurf’s effects still in the apartment. I had no intention of moving them, or even looking at them.
I had been back at my apartment an hour when a knock at the door revealed the Major through the spy hole. I let him in and knocked on the kettle.
‘Nice place,’ he mentioned, no energy in his voice.
Sat with tea mugs, he took in the apartment for a moment. ‘I guess that Smurf’s death will take the edge off for a while.’
‘It will do,’ I agreed. ‘Even Rizzo was upset.’
‘I had started to process his medical discharge, pointless now I suppose. I’ll just write up an RTU and back-date it, file it.’