by Geoff Wolak
‘The Chinook pilots that crashed did well, they got their webbing on and grabbed their rifles, but that kit is not standard when it should be always. The pilots also tended to point loaded weapons at people, fingers on the triggers, and that’s how accidents happen.’
‘So they need more training,’ he noted.
‘Some, sir, yes. The Americans have attack helicopters and transports, we have just transports, so we need door gunners, and soon.’
‘Be soon ... when I start shouting about it.’
‘None of the rear crewmen will object, they’ll love it, more to do for them, sir. But organise a few more exercises where you grab remote fields, and you can get 2 Squadron involved, but their practise parachute drop revealed the weakness in that method.’
‘How so?’
‘Three men in hospital.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose.’
‘That place in Morocco, you should have all the Hercules crews and helo crews practise the same scenario, sir, but do it in the UK first, portable fuel buggies.’
‘Back in the Cold War we used to do just this, in Germany, grab a remote airfield and take it over. Seems that we’ve forgotten some of it.’
‘Different times, sir, no Cold War pressure to practise these things. What you can organise straight away ... would be an exercise where both 47 and 7 Squadrons move to an airfield in the UK with no facilities, spend the night, then return. If they can do that, and do it often, then we’re halfway there, sir.’
‘You’re an invaluable source of information, Wilco, you know that.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I just list what I need to do my job well. Necessity is indeed the mother of invention.’
Saturday night I invited out Crab and a few other troopers, keen to have them onboard, and we argued over who did what to help who – but light heartedly.
The guys all turned up Monday morning, Rocko having been seen by a doctor and well enough, no running for a week maybe, and we spent an hour chatting about the rescue in Angola, and what we might have done differently.
The Major turned up unexpected and I stood, some a little slow in standing and getting glared at by me. He took me outside, making sure that no one was in earshot. ‘Some ... awkward questions being asked about Angola, about Bob’s doctored beer.’
‘By who?’
‘W.H.O. for one, UNITA for another. The local commander shot dead a load of people at the local brewery and burnt it down, blaming them. Seems like this thing happens often, but Wilco ... more than a thousand died, a few civilians in the mix, women.’
‘I won’t be losing any sleep over that, sir, they’re gunmen, they have no rights.’
He glanced past me. ‘Odd, coming from you, someone who used to shoot people in the arse.’
I considered that, and my change over the past year, and I knew that I had changed, but there was more to it than that. ‘Come inside a minute, sir.’
He followed me in, the lads standing, albeit slowly. I told them to sit, and pointed the Major at a chair. I took a moment, studying their faces, and they puzzled my pause.
‘Back when I first joined, and was operating in Northern Ireland, I went to great lengths to wound rather than to kill, and I still believe that over there a good trial is better than a good funeral – followed by a riot.
‘But there were times when people like Rizzo here criticised me for wounding someone when I could just have put ten rounds in the man. Some say ... I have changed since then.’
They laughed.
‘I’m not sure that I have, not in the way some may think, and if I was back in Northern Ireland today I would shoot them in the arse and see a trial rather than have them enacting revenge on some young soldier.
‘In Bosnia, I was – at first – sorry for the enlisted men I shot, and I could see that they were afraid, and being sent in by their idiot officers. But on the final day in Bosnia I walked north and came across dead civilians, and I came across Serbs raping and killing civilians, and my worries about having killed many of them went away.
‘They behaved like animals, and since that time they’ve slaughtered women and children in the tens of thousands as keenly as the NAZIs did. If I could go back to my first day in Bosnia I would not hold back, I’d kill them all and not try and walk out. They’re scumbags, and they deserve to die, they’re not soldiers.
‘In West Africa, and in Somalia, we shot more men than we needed to, and we thinned them out a little, and I’ve not lost any sleep over that.’ I took in their faces. ‘Most people in the world get up in the morning and go to work, and hold down a job they don’t like. Some pick up an AK47 and take what they want, they rape and kill, and they kidnap people for ransom.
‘They’re scumbags, and they have no rights, and I take great pleasure in shooting the fuckers, because every time I do that’s one less killer on the loose wandering around the planet. Any man that picks up an AK47 and straps it across his chest as a career choice ... is fair game, and we kill the fuckers when we can, because if we don’t then they spend a lifetime raping, killing and kidnapping.
‘In Angola, we found them drugged up and drunk -’ I focused on Moran. ‘- and we killed them all, an action well outside the Geneva Convention, and if I could I would kill more of them, and enjoy it ... as a good day’s work, good for the planet we live on. They’re not soldiers, nor freedom fighters, they’re scumbags with an AK47 instead of a steady day job like everyone else on the planet.
‘Line up every gunman in Africa and I’ll slaughter the lot with a smile on my face, and sleep well that night, because I know I’m doing the right thing, I just wish there were more hours in the day, more ammo, and more of you.
‘George Orwell said: men sleep peacefully in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf. That quote could have been meant for us, the men in this room. People sleep well at night because we ... go off and shoot the fuckers that need shooting, the people beyond the police and the courts.
‘You may not appreciate it, but you’re doing the world a big favour, and you’re acting as global policemen when you shoot that fucker with an AK strapped to his chest.’ I focused on Moran. ‘Some of you question – from time to time – the numbers of people we kill and just how we kill them. You need to get what we do in context: if we don’t shoot those fuckers, then the next week they go out, they rape the young girls and kill their parents, and kidnap people as if that’s OK for a day job.
‘There are many people alive today because of us, not just the hostages we rescued, but those that will not be slaughtered in the future by the men we killed. For those of you who bother to count the men you kill – good, keep doing it, and get the count up month by month.’
I turned to face the Major. ‘I hope that clarifies my position on the deaths in Angola, sir.’
Smiling, he stood and walked out, the lads puzzling my speech.
I faced Moran. ‘Captain, do you think you’ll be losing any sleep over how many men we kill?’
All eyes were on him as he considered his answer. ‘No, I won’t be losing any sleep over the number, just wish I had an accurate figure.’
‘For every gunman you kill, sir, ten men will live because of it.’
‘I reckon my count is well over a hundred,’ Rizzo stated.
‘I got one!’ Tommo insisted, the lads laughing.
‘Is it a little one?’ Rocko asked him.
On Tuesday we set out in two buses, and with police escorts, the regulars in one bus and my team in the other, plenty of seats to rattle around in, and we were soon to Lyneham. My team all wore desert brown, my choice because I thought it fitting, the regulars in standard combats not No.1 dress uniform for the Prime Minister, and my team mostly had simple brown caps on.
At Lyneham we moved as one large group into a hangar, and I greeted many of the pilots from the operation, some still playfully whinging about lost webbing and a thermos flask. Outside sat a few Hercules, but also a row of Chinook, RA
F Regiment lads lined up, and it looked like 2 Squadron, but I was not sure.
“G” Squadron had flown up the night before from the Congo and would get a few days off after this event, the SBS stood as a group with their officer, the RAF medics as a group.
I greeted the RAF planning officer from Angola, and noticed the Air Commodore striding across with a bunch of senior RAF officers. I saluted.
‘I’ve been shaking things up,’ he told me as he reached me. ‘Locked boxes with GPMGs, door mountings, new exercises.’
I smiled. ‘Sounds like a good idea, sir.’
We chatted for ten minutes before he had to head off, the PM’s helicopter late. I greeted Fl Lt Morten, and wondered how many of the medics resented my speech in Angola. If they did, they were not showing it outwardly.
The medic who had crumbled was right in front of me as I stepped past Morten. ‘You recovered?’ I asked the man.
‘Some, yes,’ he reluctantly got out.
‘You were close to that girl?’
He hesitated. ‘Not in a relationship, if that’s what you mean. She was trained under me, under my care, we knew each other a long time, and ... I helped her when her old boyfriend attacked her, she lived with me for a while.’
I nodded. ‘It’s never easy. My men ... they’re each like a brother, and despite what some may think it affects us greatly when a team member is killed. My best buddy, and my oldest friend, was shot in the shoulder and never recovered, so he got drunk and took his own life. Stuff like that fucks with your head for a while, if you let it.
‘Thing is, I believe in what I’m doing, and I’m proud of it, so I carry on. What about you, you staying in?’
‘I’m not leaving, no, not for reacting like that, I’m only human, and when someone you care about is blasted to death in front of you it has an effect.’
‘Even for me, so don’t worry about it; I just do a better job of covering it up.’
I stepped across to the SBS, finding Elkin winding them up. I saluted their major. ‘Did you have fun on the border, sir?’
‘Was a bit odd for the lads, because jungle fighting is covered – but rarely engaged in. But the fighters they found were drunk or drugged up, half asleep, so a bit of a slaughter.’
‘A good slaughter, because those UNITA fighters would have gone on to rape and kill, so fuck em.’
He nodded, and studied me carefully. ‘I could ... place a few good lads with you, on loan.’
That took me by surprise, and I frowned back at him. ‘For ... what purpose, sir?’
‘They get experience, you get our best men – for a while. Some have done the three-day and did well, others could do very well at it.’
‘I’ll discuss that up the line, sir, but I have no objection to that. They would move house?’
‘Some would, yes, I have mentioned it.’
‘Leave it with me, sir, and ... anything like that idea in the future and don’t be shy, I’m not like regular SAS.’
‘That’s why we’re talking,’ he said with a smile.
A minute later I cornered the Major and the Colonel, leading them to as quiet spot. ‘I had an approach by a major with the SBS, keen to loan me his very best lads.’
‘Odd,’ the Colonel noted. ‘They normally avoid us.’
‘They’re feeling left out,’ Bradley firmly stated. ‘All those newspaper headlines about SAS rescues. They’re bored, want some action, can’t blame them.’
‘What do you reckon?’ I asked. ‘We pinched Elkin.’
Bradley made a face. ‘Two or three lads on loan for a year, has been done, and we get Aussies and Kiwis coming over, same deal. But he would want them back, but ... I guess his main aim is to be able to claim that some of your successes are down to his men.’
‘Elkin did a good job, so he’s partly right,’ I pointed out.
‘Run it past Bob,’ the Colonel told me. ‘I see no ulterior motive here other than a desire for some good publicity.’
I had only gone twenty steps when the CO of 2 Squadron bound over, a direct line for me. I saluted. ‘Hello again, sir, your men rested?’
‘Got a few off work I think, from the para drop, but the rest are fine. Listen, was thinking of putting some of my lads through your three day scenario, could even ... loan you few if they met the standards.’
I got a sudden sense of déjà vu. ‘Funny you should say that, sir, it has been mentioned. To meet our standards they’d need to complete a ten mile run and twenty mile run/walk in certain times, then a twenty-four hour speed march in a given time. After that, good scores on the three day scenario cause men to pop up on my radar.’
‘And if we had a small tight team that spent some time with you, could they be better used on jobs like Angola and West Africa?’
‘They ... could, yes. At the very least they could offer a supporting role, some experience, some action.’
‘Well we’re happy to cooperate any which way.’
‘By all means write to us, to Major Bradley, with any ideas. Do you have any lads planning on applying to the SAS?’
‘Just so happens that we do, but they understand already the difference in what you do ... compared to regular SAS work. If they got some operational experience a few times a year they may stay put.’
‘I take your meaning, sir, you’d rather keep your best men, and ... a few positive newspaper headlines with 2 Squadron in would be good.’
‘It all helps, and we’re supposed to be elite. Time for us to prove it.’
‘Leave it with me, sir.’
The PM’s helicopter, an RAF Puma, finally touched down, the various groups lined up, and I was called forwards by the planning officer. Seems that I would be taking the PM around, whether I liked that or not.
I greeted the PM with a handshake, the Defence Minister and a few others with him, and we exchanged idle pleasantries for a moment. Starting at the beginning, I spun his group around and pointed out the RAF Regiment, who stamped to attention and presented weapons.
‘The RAF Regiment, sir, 2 Squadron, they provided protection for the aircraft in Angola. Their squadron has the specific task of seizing and securing airfields.’
He greeted their CO and shook his hand, a few questions asked as a photographer snapped away - I smirked at Wilson stood in the line, and we soon turned and headed in, first to the RAF medics.
‘These are the RAF medics that accompanied us, and many of their staff flew in helicopters and into danger, one killed when a Chinook crashed, and many assisted the hostages in the back of a Hercules, and at the rear base.’
He worked the line and asked simple questions. At the medic who had crumbled, he said, ‘Were you near the action?’ and I could have choked out a cough.
‘I was on the helicopter that crashed, sir, my colleague killed.’
‘Sorry to hear that; the lady?’
‘Yes, sir, she was shot.’
‘That’s terrible. Are you coping?’
‘Yes, sir. I respect my work and take a pride in it, and I’ll carry on doing it.’
‘Well done,’ the PM said as he moved off, and the medic glanced at me, defiant in his look.
At the 7 Squadron group I began, ‘These are the pilots who practise the most dangerous missions, sir, those involving special forces. They were with us in West Africa and Angola.’
‘You practise refuelling by hand I understand.’
‘It’s an option, sir,’ replied the closest pilot. ‘But we have small generators, they’re much faster.’
‘Did you come under fire in Angola?’
‘We did, sir, as we dispensed smoke to cover the hostage rescue.’
‘I’m jealous of course, you lot whizzing around in helicopters whilst I sit behind a desk. But we’re all very proud of you.’
A dozen questions later, and a dozen similar answers, and we met the Hercules pilots and the ground crews, whose role I explained.
A sergeant said, ‘When Wilco told us to run across the airfield
looking scared we did that well enough.’ And they laughed. ‘We were the bait for an ambush.’
I explained the ambush, and the role of the men - as well as shoving the jeeps out the back, the PM fascinated by the dangers we faced. Next came the SBS, and they relayed what they had done on the border as the senior officers stood back and listened in, then we were onto the regular SAS, and I was dreading some of the answers, but they were polite enough, Major Bradley fielding many of the questions.
At my section the PM lingered, many questions asked, all politely answered since all of my lot had been threatened with being beaten-up and thrown out of the unit otherwise. He was fascinated that men had come from many services.
I cut in with, ‘We’re planning on taking men on loan from other services, sir, after which they get valuable wartime experience accrued in peacetime.’
‘You grab all the talent,’ he noted.
‘By doing so, and planning carefully, we get good newspaper headlines.’
He shot me a look, knowing exactly what I meant. ‘We all like good newspaper headlines, and careful selection and careful planning seems to be key. Well done, and let’s hope you achieve further successes.’
I led him back to his helicopter, but he dismissed some of his posse, just two men left.
He asked, ‘What do you need, to keep getting good newspaper headlines?’
‘Some luck, sir.’
He smiled. And waited.
‘After that, more of the same. If we can pinch men and train them well, and maintain a good attitude, we’ll keep getting successes, and attitude is key, many SAS lads fostering bad attitudes. Groups like the SBS are jealous, so are the RAF Regiment and Paras and others, and that’s good – because it promotes competition, better standards.
‘If each group had its own team in support of mine, then when a task like Angola comes along we drag them in, and each unit claims they helped out. Politicians like good headlines, but so do the individual units, and success breeds success. If men compete with each other to get to the elite unit, without having to apply to the SAS, that would help a lot.’