by Geoff Wolak
That was followed up by a pre-dawn infiltration raid, the same as the day before but with the extra step of the infiltration and move into position. With everyone allowed a good lunch and some time to sleep in the coach, late that night saw the start of the second exercise, which began with the lads being dropped off half a mile down the road.
They were required to sneak up, make an assessment from all sides, find a way in, and then storm the Killing House just before dawn and withdraw with covering fire, all carefully coordinated, Moran in charge.
I had roped in Sergeant Crab and three veterans of hostage rescue, and we watched the cameras in the gatehouse, chatting to the MPs and the police, all of us wary about getting shot – but we had the metal window covers closed.
I was happy with how it went, the lads slow and careful, and even the infra red had a hard time seeing them as they snuck in. But this time Swifty got a small ricochet on the second level, Tomo getting a splinter to his leg, nothing serious – save that it created lots of paperwork.
Crab and his old hacks had comments to make, including the fact that time was wasted checking the same room twice, and that Rocko was too damn big and slow to go in with the lead men, they should be short, light and nimble. Their own troops would try it in a few weeks time.
With the lads needing a break, Bob had finally organised a deserted island for us off the coast of Belize, instructors to hand, and we flew off via scheduled RAF Tristar flight with a bunch of Paras, Marines and Engineers heading out for some jungle training, Rocko knowing the Para NCOs and chatting. I kept an eye on him, hoping he would not clobber anyone.
After half an hour a Para officer, a captain, came and found me, then noticed Moran and got into a long chat. The three of us moved to a quiet area, empty seats, the captain interested in what he had heard about our part timers. He offered to pass it up the line, and to look at a volunteer only small unit, weekend work for selection.
I told him, ‘Most of your Pathfinders would qualify straight away, rest is down to intent, desire and attitude.’
‘Some of the Pathfinders have an attitude, some did two years with the SAS and came back with even more attitude, but there are some good lads. What appeals to me, and I’m sure would appeal to the lads, is the chance to attend live jobs but not have to move across to the SAS.’
‘Get them on the three-day scenario, that sorts the men out from the boys,’ Moran told him.
A long twelve hours later we were in a hot stuffy coach and squinting against the bright sunlight, soon on a boat that had us all worried regarding its state of repair. But instead of taking us to an island it took us down the coast a few miles, to a strip of deserted coast backed by impenetrable swamp and bracketed by mangrove forests.
We landed on a rickety pier, hardly room for one man to move down it, and unloaded with very little kit. On the coaches the lads had changed into lightweight green uniforms, nothing allowed in pockets – nothing at all.
I lugged the bags of kit that I would allow the lads to have and I dumped them on pristine white sand, a fantastic beach location backed by palm trees, small crabs darting into their sand burrows. The lads stood around looking perplexed, not least because I had been low on detail. With us were three Army instructors, one ex-SAS, and they had their own bags.
With the boat casting off and chugging away I gathered everyone around. They sat on the pristine white sand. ‘OK, listen up. This is the scenario: you’re stuck here following a plane crash. You have what you’re wearing, what you find on the beach, what you can make from the trees, plus this.’
I handed over ten large water bottles, twenty tins of meat, water purifying tablets - just one packet, two rusty old machetes, a pocket knife, two boxes of matches – not many matches, two magnifying glasses, some fishing line and two hooks, some plastic bags, some large plastic sheets.
‘OK, team one is Rocko and Slider, Tomo and Smitty. Team two is Rizzo and Stretch, Swifty, Napoleon and Elkin. Captain Moran, you will observe, but not assist, but you’re with team one. OK, see that big log, that divides the beach and forest. Team one, left of it, team two right of it. Make some shelter, trap water, find some food, and ... that’s it. Get on with it.’
They exchanged puzzled looks as they stood.
‘Go on, move it!’ I shouted.
The instructors watched the lads move off, and they set about creating their own camp as I stripped off down to my pants and had a swim, mindful of sharks. Back at central camp, my feet now covered in sand, the instructors looked me over.
‘What the fuck happened to you?’ the ex-SAS guy, Whisky, asked.
‘A few grenades, a few rounds, the usual.’ I placed my trousers on. ‘Wait till tomorrow, then criticise what the lads are doing, offer advice, then start the training sessions.’
With my top off, trouser bottoms rolled up, I ambled along the beach to Team One, who had found fallen trees and were building something. I slowly walked to the end of the beach, finding coconut husks as I progressed, and I reached the start of the mangrove forest. It was peaceful and very beautiful here, and I spent an hour just staring at the gently breaking waves, a turtle spotted.
Getting back, the sun was getting low, the teams getting the plastic sheets up in case it rained, and already rationing the water. I opened a tin of meat and spooned it out as I sat near the instructors’ fire, and we chatted about Angola and other rescues, and about the survival skills required here.
It rained in the night, but just for an hour, and the dawn offered a spectacular orange glow across the calm ocean. I fancied a dip till I saw a fin in the water.
Whisky appeared at my side. ‘Dawn and dusk is when the sharks come in close,’ he commented before pissing in the sand.
With the sun up fully I found Team One yawning, a few complaining of ants and mosquitoes. ‘Did you trap any water overnight?’ I asked.
‘We did,’ Moran replied. ‘But not intentionally. The cover sagged a bit and caught water, and sagged till it touched me – waking me. We used one water bottle first, and got the water in.’
‘Good. Now ... go searching for anything useful, never go too far alone. Did you ... have a man on stag, a fire going?’
They exchanged looks. ‘No,’ came back.
‘Points deducted, you could be in a war zone, Jap patrol boats off shore. But mostly, the guy on stag might have spotted the large black snake.’
They jumped up, and Rocko spotted it. ‘Fuck! That poisonous?’ ‘Deadly. So kill it.’
He beat it with a stick. ‘Can we eat it?’
‘Have to ask the experts. I’d say no.’
When I returned a few hours later they had a pile of junk and flotsam, plus vines and coconut husks. In the mix were plastic or glass bottles, old rope, lengths of wood, a lifejacket that was torn apart, a tennis ball, all sorts. Turning after a shout was heard, we saw Tomo come out the water in his pants, a big fish having been jabbed with a make-do spear.
‘Lunch is up,’ Rizzo enthused. They took it off the spear, and it bit Rizzo’s finger, a nasty gash that needed my attention, antibiotics injected, a good telling off given.
Whisky appeared with a squealing pig, quite small, and I had him hand it to Smitty, Whisky instructing him on how best to kill it and cook it. Its blood was tasted by all before it was slowly roasted over an open fire, along with the fish.
Team Two also got a pig from Whisky, and similar instruction, but theirs was larger, Tomo getting good at spearing fish. The instructors dug down into the sand, took stones from the fire and dropped them in, fish covered in green leaves and dropped in, sand placed on top, water poured and allowed to reach the stones, tiny wisps of steam seen escaping the damp sand.
Finding a small sheet of metal, the instructors cleaned it up and placed it above a fire, soon frying fillets of fish as the lads observed, the pros and cons of each method discussed; the burial method used less energy and prepared food slowly overnight ready for breakfast.
As the sun dipped low many
of the lads sat in a circle around a fire, weaving thin vine threads into more suitable make-do rope under the careful instruction of our teachers.
It rained again, and in the morning I checked on water captured, both teams a bit more switched on now, plenty of water trapped – as well as a myriad of insects swimming in that water, all sorts of containers used to store it.
When Whisky was ready, a few hours later, everyone was called together and led into the forest, and to a tree, where Whisky pointed out a Red-Rumped Tarantula, not poisonous, but it caused a skin reaction when handled. Next he pointed out a small Black Widow Spider, everyone getting a look, the spider absolutely deadly, and we’d been sleeping rough near it.
Finding a black tarantula, Willy picked it up and showed us, the large hairy spider quite harmless and docile, unless you were a cricket, and ten minutes of searching revealed a Yellow Pit Viper, again deadly.
Getting back, the lads cleared space around their camp and chopped down bushes, fearful of what might be lurking nearby. After a lunch of fish, Whisky and the instructors took us to a shallow lagoon, a dozen deadly sea creatures pointed out, and we all knew what to avoid. Some killed you quickly, some would cause a limb to be amputated, some would put you in a coma, others would cause your flesh to expand and your skin to split.
Later, a few of the lads risked climbing the coconut trees and fetching down many coconuts in a variety of ripening stages, but Slider managed to dislodge the biggest spider ever seen – a loud scream issued, and he swiped it off his head, the poor creature landing on its back. Not even Willy knew its species, and we let it crawl away unhindered; damn thing was too big to argue with.
Whisky used the machete to open a few ripe coconuts, and we all tasted the milk. Split open, the flesh was carefully cut out, but was very hard to chew and not like a Bounty chocolate bar at all – as Rizzo pointed out.
The next morning we set out, led by Whisky, and he led us through the forest, interesting or deadly creatures pointed out, tracks peered down at. Finding similar tracks later, he would ask questions about which particular creature created them. Edible plants were identified, a few sampled, and before we lost the light he taught the lads how to set traps, and many traps were left overnight.
An hour after sun down, and odd screaming sounds made Whisky smile, the lads stumbling around in the forest with wood alight at one end, finding a trapped pig and knocking it out, bringing it back. An hour later and a screaming sound had Team Two venturing into the interior with branches alight, the pig proving hard to grab and just unsubtly beaten to death.
In the morning the lads found what was left of a chicken in a trap. It had been trapped, then eaten by something, the lesson learnt, Whisky laughing; the traps needed checking regularly.
Our boat arrived around noon, and the crew threw overboard several oil barrels and some wooden lengths, left to float ashore as the boat pulled away, the lads – now suntanned and unshaven, fetching the offerings, salt marks seen in uniforms.
‘Right, Team One,’ I called. ‘Make a raft for two men.’
An hour later, and Rocko and Slider took their attempt at advanced nautical engineering into the water and paddled out a ways, soon sinking and rolling over, getting laughed at. They had to swim in, raft dragged.
‘Useless fuckers!’ I told them, Whisky shaking his head. ‘Make another one.’
An hour later, and that one flipped over, our hapless pair swimming in. Further attempts were put off till the morning, the lads sat around the fire knitting together more rope.
Smitty and Tomo were tasked next, and they had benefitted from having observed Rocko and Slider, and they had half an idea about the centre of gravity, and how knots could be tightened. Their raft had them sat half submerged, but it was stable, and they paddled out and back, the raft dismantled and handed over to team two as Whisky and the instructors set about a building a raft by utilising fallen trees.
I sat and observed the knots they were using, and copied myself, studying the design of the knot; as you pulled against it, it increased the pressure on ropes that were part of the knot, self tightening almost.
‘Standard sailors knot,’ Whisky told me. ‘For tying off boats. Harder you yank, stronger it gets. The rope you’re pulling on clamps down on a bit of itself already around the loop.’
After sun up, leftover pig cooked, I had them all study nautical knots for an hour, each man made to practise over and over. As team two tried to make a raft, team one were led into the forest and I tagged along.
‘OK,’ Whisky asked. ‘How do you navigate in a dense jungle?’
‘Compass,’ Tomo ventured.
‘Got a compass on you, dickhead?’ Whisky asked him, Tomo getting laughed at. ‘OK, best way and simplest way is the sun. Look up, look at the trees and the shadows. Sun rises in the east, overhead midday, sets in the west, so just keep an eye on where the shadows are.
‘There’re also several species of plant that will only grow south facing, some that prefer the shade – like genus fungi.’ He pointed to a tree. ‘Moss on one side, not the other. So, what’s the time?’
‘Got no fucking watches,’ Rocko pointed out. ‘But it’s morning.’
‘So, where’s the sun?’
They pointed.
‘Right, so that’s east. Now look at the trees, see the shadows, and you could use them for a few hours. OK, spread out, find some fungi on a tree.’
It took ten minutes, but Slider found some and we closed in. Willy began, ‘OK, where’s east?’
They pointed. ‘So south is..?’
Again they pointed.
‘And this fungi is on the north side, because we’re still above the equator here. OK, which way back to the beach?’
I said, ‘Beach runs north to south...’
‘We have to be west of it,’ Rocko said. ‘So it’s that way.’
‘Lead on,’ Whisky told him, and we found the beach eventually. Back at the beach, Whisky got his kit together, and he took Moran, Rocko and Slider into the forest to make traps that would not only snare a chicken or wild foul, but lift them up off the floor – away from hungry predators.
Just before sun down all were gathered together. ‘OK,’ I called. ‘Who has a cut or scrape that’s hurting?’
‘I do,’ Smitty said, and I examined it.
‘It’s infected, and the most important thing you can do around here is not get an infection, because that’ll reduce you to a wreck in two or three days. Smitty, you should have reported that earlier, you may need to be taken off early, idiot.’
I got cream on it and injected him, others offered cream to use. I told them, ‘You were not reminded about infection for a purpose, and many of you did the jungle course. How quickly you forget - Rizzo.’
He exchanged sheepish looks with the others.
I added, ‘If Smitty has a fever in the morning it’ll be a valuable lesson. You’re in the tropics, infections kill, insect bites can kill, so switch your brains on.’
I handed Moran a tube of antiseptic cream to keep with him for team one, Napoleon wanting some for a scrape. ‘You’ve also neglected personal hygiene, and I allowed you to do that. Wash twice a day in the sea, get your hair under to kill insects crawling around, salt water will kill things in your pubes. Tomorrow you get soap to use.’
The next morning Smitty was sore, but OK to continue, and Willy led everyone out to find plants that offered some element of natural antiseptic, and he found Aloe Vera growing wild, to be used on sunburn.
Back at the beach, the antiseptic plants were boiled, the mulch rubbed into armpits and groins, and on scrapes, Aloe Vera leaves cut open and its cream placed on sunburnt forearms and foreheads, as well as ends of noses, Napoleon suffering. I could have started with such procedures, but I figured they’d learn more if they tripped into the problems rather than being warned in advance.
Whisky and the instructors launched their raft, and it floated well, and was very stable. Back on the shore, they described
the design features to everyone, all having a go at certain knots.
The following day the boat returned for us, and we sadly left behind our happy home, all now tanned and unshaven, hair going lighter due to the salt water, all uniforms showing salt marks. We were met at the dock by our coaches, a long hot stuffy ride to Belize City and on to Price Barracks, finding many British soldiers marching around.
A hut with our kit was waiting for us, metal crates with our weapons and webbing in, bandoliers, plus other essentials like compasses and medical kits – all packed in secret by myself, Moran and O’Leary
The lads were allowed a shower, cuts and scrapes were checked, rations were issued, bandoliers on, webbing on, weapons checked – live ammo to be taken, cam cream on faces, and off we went to the heli-pad, soon spread between two Army Air Corp Bell Hueys and heading west through a misty rain; it could have been a Vietnam war movie.
Touching down, we ran out, all round defence as the Hueys lifted off, soon just a quiet background chirp to the forest, the briefing simply being to meet a local resistance fighter and get instructions. That man walked out of the jungle in the form of Whisky, and we gathered around and knelt down.
Pad a paper out, maps out, we received the “intel” from our local operative, a dog leg route to march and to look out for the enemy, avoiding all contact.
Maps checked, I told Moran to take charge, Rizzo troop sergeant and Rocko 2ic, and off we went, Moran familiar with these hills, as were a few of the lads – having done the course before. This time it would be different.
Twenty six hours later we arrived back at the same spot, soaked through, cut and bruised, and absolutely spent. Watches checked, the Hueys came in and carried our muddy carcases back to base, everyone allowed a shower and a quick clean-up before we quickly headed to the airport in hot stuffy coaches.
Sat waiting our Tristar, many fell asleep, nudged awake to get on board, and then everyone fell asleep as soon as the aircraft levelled off. Back at Brize Norton the lads were groggy, but at least it was cold and fresh, the lads all due three days off.