by Geoff Wolak
Continuing to the left with Henri and Moran I could see the goat track leading left, and ten yards back from the edge was a large position, a sandbag wall. ‘Henri, Moran, we live here.’ I turned, Henri’s two men following. ‘Into a position,’ I told them, and pointed to a fox hole next to my new happy home.
Walking to the rear we found a burnt out jeep, a smelly hole used for shitting in, a demolished stone building, a low stone wall, and then we were to the access road, the centre of the camp potholed from falling rockets.
The French captain awaited us, looking a little lost. The access road snaked off to the right and then turned left, a sandy field just over a low stone wall barely twelve inches high.
‘Captain, I want your men here, dig in here, watch this road, please. That OK?’
Henri translated and got back a shrug, his men starting to dig in soft soil that looked like it once housed a crop of some sort. Stepping away, Henri said, ‘You don’t want them at the front?’
‘Not now, let them rest, and I want that road protected anyhow.’ We closed on the 2 Squadron lads. ‘OK, our kit will be here ... maybe today, or whenever, so we rough it for now. You see the French lads by the road, that’s their concern, yours is the rest of this rear and the east side.’ I pointed and they looked. ‘But you’ll also be at the front on rotation. For now just get comfy, and try and find some protection from mortars, those rocks look good.’
They moved across to the rocks and settled in, and as I stood taking in the flat centre a rocket screeched in and landed a hundred yards east, our welcoming salvo. Near the tall wall which we had first knelt next to I could see a stack of sandbags, some split open, lengths of wood and some metal poles sticking out of the ground.
To Moran and Henri I said, ‘This is where the medical tents will be, sandbag wall.’
‘It is exposed,’ Henri commented.
‘Only till we stop the rockets and mortars,’ I assured him, and we walked across to our new home, easing inside. Taking out my poncho and brown cloth, I rigged up a cover, both from any rain and from the sun, Henri and Moran assisting.
Fetching out my sat phone, I dialled.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, you set up at ROB?’
‘Yes, twenty warm bodies, signals intel and us, how’s it going?’
‘We’re at Camp Bad, just as expected – a fucking shit hole on the top of a hill, all settled into the fox holes, just one rocket so far, waiting the jeep convoy. French soldiers that were here are like zombies, half asleep.’
‘Must be hell, sleeping an hour at a time.’
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow. Wilco out.’
I dialled again.
‘Major Bradley.’
‘It’s Wilco, sir, we’re at Camp Bad and settled in, so far according to plan, first patrols out tomorrow.’
‘How is it?’
‘It’s a shit hole piece of flat dusty nothingness, sir, rockets raining down. I’ll keep you posted, Wilco out.’
Ten minutes later, and Rocko radioed for me, so we ran across. ‘There’s movement in that OP.’
I face Henri, and he shouted towards it. A face popped up and shouted back in French.
Smiling, I said, ‘Call them back, please.’ Their CO had forgotten about them.
Henri placed hands around his mouth and shouted, and the men came back with their GPMG, the knife-edge path very carefully negotiated, Henri explaining that each of the previous defenders of the camp had to spend a day there.’
The men reached us, tired and drawn, and were sent to the rear.
‘Slider, Elkin,’ I called. ‘You go first.’
They eased out, kit collected, and negotiated the tricky path, soon onto the exposed top and dropping down.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Slider, what’s it like?’
‘Small fox hole, five feet deep, good fucking view. You’d not want someone scared of heights in here! I could do with a fucking parachute!’
‘See anything, sing out.’
‘Wilco, it’s Westy, some fucker on the rocks, two o’clock, six hundred yards out.’
‘Then shoot the fucker!’
Rounds cracked out, everyone wanting to hit the man.
‘Slider, you see him?’
‘There’s three of them, blacks.’
‘Then try and shoot the fuckers, don’t wait for me.’
Ten minutes later, and Slider came on with, ‘One man down, one limping, one ran off.’
‘That’s pants shooting. Keep your eyes open, all of you.’ I faced Moran. ‘Take Swifty up that left ridge a ways, have a look for an hour.’ He grabbed Swifty and set off as I headed right, and to the SBS. ‘Captain, pick two men and send them up that ridge two hundred yards, see what you can see for an hour.’
Back in the command hole we waited, Henri and I chatting about family as much as strategy, then we spotted a small goat across the camp, puzzling its presence.
Three hours later, and the 2 Squadron boys radioed about a convoy approaching. I walked to the rear with Henri and Moran, and we observed the convoy slowly approach us via the bumpy track, the French soldiers still digging trenches - and not reacting.
The eight jeeps pulled in, and I directed them to the high stone wall. ‘Park there.’
We followed them over to it. ‘Medical tents here,’ I called. ‘We’ll build a sandbag wall for you. When the tents are up, jeeps at the front and all round, they’ll offer you some extra cover from shrapnel.’
The medics got to work as I fetched half the 2 Squadron lads, and the SBS. ‘OK, sandbags in the jeeps, shovels, and there’s a broken down wall of sandbags there. I want a wall seven feet high coming out at a right angle to that high stone wall, this area for the medics – the most important people, so take care of them. Work quickly please.’
Henri and I grabbed GPMGs off the jeeps and carried them forwards, handing them out, soon back with ammo boxes and working up a sweat. Eight GPMGs were handed out at the front, two at the rear for 2 Squadron. Two M82s were handed out, one to Rocko and one to the SAS lads, plus heavy tins of ammo.
Next came water bottles, and with our rifles slung we lugged plastic packs to trenches, the bottles handed out evenly, several packs for the grateful French soldiers at the rear. Ration packs came next, each trench getting four boxes stacked at the rear.
The sandbag wall was reaching skyward and outward, and we pitched in for a while, the medic’s large green tents up and tight into the corner that we had made, their smaller tent next to it, then a jeep at the side, jeeps at the front for cover.
Another rocket hitting the hillside caused everyone to duck down, the sandbag wall hastened, the older and broken sandbags utilised. I sent the SBS back and called forwards the SAS, their rifles slung, sandbags filled in a hurry as we lost the light.
From a jeep I lifted out our small petrol generator with Henri, the medics having their own, and in the dark – using a torch - I set it up just beyond the high stone wall, starting it with a vigorous yank of a cord.
Battery connected, to charge the battery as the generator ran, I ran out the wire as Henri puzzled what the heck I was doing, and the wire reached all the way to a large outcrop a hundred yards out. Christmas lights off my shoulder, I spread them out facing north on the slope, and connected them. They twinkled into existence and I ran back.
‘Wilco?’ came over the radio, Rocko’s voice. ‘There’s some strange lights on the ridge.’
‘It’s a decoy, they’re Christmas lights. From a distance it will look like the base, so they aim for it. All lights out in the main base at night, always.’
At the medical tents I asked them to keep the flaps closed, and to avoid any naked lights outside. My comment of ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on!’ made them laugh.
The SAS had used up most of the sandbags now, the wall high and long, and I thanked them, sending them back, the medical tent now cornered on two sides by a wall as tall as it was long. I ducked inside a
s they made ready.
‘OK, listen up. This corner has a wall and sandbags, so any explosions and duck down over there. When you get a chance tomorrow put some sandbags at the front, and near where you sleep. Only danger here is a direct hit. Get some rest when you’re ready, we’ll shout if someone is hurt.’
They pointed at a French soldier sat in a chair, I had not seen him, and they had worked on a small ricochet wound.
Back in my command hole, I cooked with Moran and Henri, chatting away, and it was comfy enough except for a few unwelcome centipedes. A goat bleating made us look up, the small animal shooed sway. Sipping a tea and peering out across the dark flat centre of the camp, and I could feel the temperature dropping. The lads had their sleeping bags off the jeeps, so they should be OK tonight. Then I remembered Slider.
I clicked on my radio. ‘Slider, you there?’
‘Yeah, still here, can’t see much.’
‘Forgot your sleeping bag?’
‘No room in here for it, or to get comfy, but it’s cosy, we got a fire going to warm us up in a little alcove, poncho over the top.’
‘Swap at dawn. Wilco out.’
I managed to get a good four hours sleep and I woke feeling fresh as the sky turned dark blue, and I only remembered a few rockets hitting us. Moran would now bed down – he had been on stag, Henri still asleep, and I eased out quietly - that little goat peering back at me, and I was soon off to one side and peeing in the half-light. Walking forwards across the centre, I reached the trenches and stared down the two valleys, a face turning up towards me.
‘Quiet enough night,’ came Rocko’s voice.
‘How many rockets you reckon?’
‘Three, then fuck all after midnight, they were off sleeping. And your fairy lights went out around 2am.’
‘They’re Christmas lights, not fairy lights,’ I insisted.
Tomo threw liquid from a container, down the cliff side. ‘What was that?’ I asked him.
‘To stop Rocko taking the piss – I chuck it first,’ came back, those awake chuckling. ‘Soon to be followed by a flying turd in paper.’
I wandered along the line, a few faces turning around, and I stretched my legs with a little jog to the rear, no sounds coming from within the medical tent as I passed it. I closed in on the 2 Squadron lads, a face turning around to me. Someone had dug out sand between two rocks, poncho over the top, legs sticking out.
‘That looks comfy, as well as secure,’ I whispered.
‘Yes, sir, got some kip, it went quiet.’
‘You can rest during the day as well,’ I told him, lifting up and heading right to the French, two faces turning to see what was up.
I knelt next to one. ‘You sleep OK?’
‘Yes, some sleep, no so much zee rocket.’
‘Carry on resting,’ I told him.
Back at my own hole I found Moran pissing in the rocks. He stretched and yawned as he joined me, and we peered towards the goat trail. ‘Not sleepy?’
‘I got two hours, feel awake.’
‘An hour from now,’ I began, ‘take eleven men with you, along the goat trail six hundred yards, drop four men in an OP with a view of the road, on another six hundred, drop four men again, on again and stop, and at dawn tomorrow you reverse that and we swap.’
His dark outline nodded. ‘I’ll try and get those rocket crews.’
The drone of helicopters caused us to turn, and for Henri to yawn and scramble out.
‘My men,’ he noted.
The lead Puma put down with a blast of sand, its lights on, ten men jumping down with kit, soon kneeling in a line as the Puma lifted off in a hurry, and soon we had thirty-two French lads with their kit.
I told Henri, ‘My team will give up their trenches in an hour, some of your men can use it. For now, I want a patrol, twelve men, rations for one day. They go out to the right, six hundred metres, leave four men in an OP, then on six hundred, leave four men, on another six hundred and wait till dawn, then they swap.’
He barked orders at his men, a team forming up under a large sergeant, and off they plodded to the north east, the remainder grabbing trenches at the front for now, just enough empty positions for them to occupy as the dawn came on.
I stepped across to Hamble, finding him awake. ‘Captain, there are French patrols off to the right, don’t shoot at them.’ Edging along the line, I repeated that advice to the SBS. On the radio, I broadcast, ‘Listen up. There are French patrols on the right hand side cliffs, the east and north east, check your fire, and today there’ll be patrols to the west on the cliffs, check your fire – only shoot at black faces in civvy clothes.’
‘Just like in London,’ came a voice, men heard chuckling as I shook my head.
An hour later Moran led most of our detachment out, and I watched them plod slowly off, Tomo and Smitty in the cliff-top OP, a few of the Salties left behind, breakfast being cooked. I asked Henri to send a four man patrol south a mile and back, and I made a point of warning the 2 Squadron lads about firing at men approaching before I settled down with Henri to cook some breakfast. As we ate, the goat came right up to us and waited. I offered it a chocolate and it wolfed the offering down.
‘It is tame,’ Henri noted. ‘The men before, they feed it I think.’
It got a good feed, and some patting.
An hour later, and in bright sunshine, I stretched my back, taking out my sat phone.
‘Captain Harris here.’
‘It’s Wilco, reporting in, had a quiet enough night, they all fucked off after midnight, so we got some rest.’
‘Got some news, and it’s not good.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘French patrol was ambushed not too far from you – about ten miles; six dead, four wounded, six missing – presumed captured.’
I turned and took in Henri as he stood chatting to his lads. ‘Roger that. Any local intel or signals intel?’
‘We’re tracking a large group in your area, hope to have something solid soon enough.’
‘OK, Wilco out.’
I stepped across to Henri and waved him to one side. ‘One of your patrols was ambushed, six dead, six captured, four wounded, ten miles from here.’
His face dropped, and he stared out across the valley to the hills beyond. ‘We have lost many men in this shit hole.’ He faced me. ‘We need to find some successes soon, the newspapers want us gone.’
I nodded. ‘We just got here, but we’ll find them,’ I assured him. I stepped across to the SBS trenches, finding Hamble chatting to the SBS captain. ‘Some news,’ I said as I drew alongside them. ‘French patrol was hit near here, six dead, four wounded, six captured. The locals are kicking off.’
‘An infantry attack on this place would be suicide for them,’ Hamble insisted. ‘We’re dug in tight on all sides, well armed.’
‘Fight won’t be here, it’ll be out on some hillside,’ I told them before I walked across to the west goat trail. Standing tall on a rock, I transmitted, ‘Captain Moran, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, still got a signal,’ came back.
‘Be extra careful, got intel on bad boys in the area. Report it when you see it.’
‘Roger that.’
An hour later, and Henri reported that the French patrol I sent out had shot two men carrying an RPG. I told him to start a score card as those left in the base waited for an onslaught that was late coming.
When my sat phone went it was Moran.
‘Wilco here.’
‘We just ambushed an eight man patrol coming up a track, killed them all I think, could be some wounded. They were lugging a rocket and a launcher.’
‘Where’s the rocket now?’
‘With them, half way down the hill.’
‘Need that rocket destroyed, or the next group will use it.’
‘We’d have to approach them,’ Moran warned.
‘Double tap the bodies, be careful, dispose of that rocket or we’ll get it fired at us some day real soon.’
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br /> ‘Roger that.’
I faced Henri with a smirk. ‘My lads killed eight, got one rocket. Ask your men to take their thumbs out their arses, eh?’
He cursed in French and got on the radio, no doubt to use some colourful French language towards his men.
At noon it grew hot as I stood at the front of the cliffs, men less afraid of falling rockets now.
Henri strode across. ‘We have killed seven men, and they dropped their rocket. My men make a fire under the rocket.’ We heard a distant echoing blast. ‘The rocket explodes, no.’
‘Keep the scorecard,’ I told him with a smile.
Taking a leisurely stroll across the camp, I checked in on the medics. ‘All set up?’
‘Yes, we’re ready,’ they assured me. ‘Gone quiet though.’
‘Would you prefer a few rockets?’ I teased.
‘No, no.’
I smiled widely. ‘My lads got a rocket crew, so did the French. If we do our jobs properly then the rockets won’t reach here. But don’t forget to keep sandbagging.’
Strolling on, and sweating a little, I stopped and sipped water at the rear of the 2 Squadron position.
Haines closed in on me, his rifle slung. ‘Gone quiet,’ he echoed.
‘My lads killed a rocket crew north west, the French killed a rocket crew north east, otherwise you would have heard them by now.’
‘Not the most pleasant spot on the planet, is it,’ he noted as he took in the view, squinting in the bright sunlight.
‘Wars are never fought in pleasant spots, always shit holes.’
‘This is similar to Cyprus, so we’ll have to train there more often.’
I nodded, putting away my water. ‘Falkland’s War was won on the Brecon Beacons, exactly the same terrain. You ... get much sleep?’
‘Four or five hours I reckon, after midnight.’
‘Your men can alternate rest during the day, easier to sleep when it’s hot, but around here they attack after dark, so call stand-to when it gets dark and for two hours after. You should be alert from sun down to midnight mostly.’
He nodded. ‘Patrols out?’