by Geoff Wolak
He flew off leaving me worried about what 14 Intel may have taped, and who they had taped. If they had taped Rizzo and Swifty in a bar we’d have a problem.
The next morning I rudely insisted that the Colonel get all men on the base together on the parade ground, and he was worried. Even Signals and Intel, and the Stores and Armoury lads were lined up, the Major looking worried.
‘Listen up!’ I bellowed. ‘A few weeks ago, men from 14 Intel tape recorded SAS soldiers in a bar, the detail of which is said to be in the hands of the police, who are preparing a case. Someone ... or many people, may end up in prison. All of you need to blab less, and you can rest assured that if I or my men end up being arrested, and it’s your voice on the tape played in court, there will be nowhere on this fucking planet you could run and hide to get away from me. Thank you, dismissed.’
I led the Major and the Colonel inside. In the Colonel’s office, he said, ‘Do you know what they have?’
‘No, but they have indicated that they have tapes,’ I replied. ‘If they taped Rizzo and Swifty ... we’re all fucked.’
‘And your visitor yesterday?’ the Colonel pressed.
‘Cabinet Office, sir, and they’re on our side, and they want this to go away, more than we do.’
‘14 Intel have been shut down,’ the Major stated.
‘More like a pause, sir, they will regroup in time. But the Prime Minister now knows the score, and he’ll be dealing with it.’
‘You had a private chat with him,’ the Colonel posed.
‘Yes, before Bob did something silly. 14 Intel threatened him, so he was about to go after them, and I don’t need him in the dock giving evidence. None of us ... need him on cross-examination under oath.’
They exchanged worried looks.
Bob called me later. ‘A Yorkshire newspaper is about to run a story, suggesting that you have an illegitimate child from a rape some six years ago.’
‘No big deal, DNA test will prove otherwise.’
‘They using the Wilco name. We could D-Notice it, but that may suggest guilt.’
‘Bob, we need some support,’ I cheerfully suggested. ‘And I know just where to get it. Trust me.’
He sounded worried.
I made a call, the people at the other end very surprised, and the Colonel OK’d the squadron helicopter being used to ferry a journalist from The Sun newspaper down to me. The man arrived looking a little bewildered, glancing around at everything, and I led him inside.
‘You’re the one called Wilco?’ he asked, taking in the detail of the interest room.
‘I am. And the reason I invited you down here, after getting permission – which was not easy, is because a rival intelligence agency, 14 Intel in Northern Ireland, have bribed a girl in Yorkshire to make a false rape claim against me. A DNA test is in progress, and that will prove my innocence, but the damage will still be done.
‘I invited you here because this is not just about me. This other agency is jealous of my successes, thanks in part to various newspaper stories that have leaked – you’re paper is partly to blame for their jealousy.’
‘So why can’t the Army or the Prime Minister stop them?’ the journalist asked, taking in the room, glances at the lads.
‘14 Intel have has been shut down for the moment, but its members are beyond the law – or at least they consider that they are. So, here’s the deal. You get an exclusive from me, and we take one of your lot along on our next hostage rescue, an exclusive.’
‘You could swing that?’ the guy asked, about to explode with barely contained excitement.
‘Be breaking a lot of rules, but I can, so long as we can vet what you say and the photos you display.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’
‘What I want from you now, is a story out tomorrow, a small one, stating that I refute the claims and that a DNA test will prove the lady to be lying, and that she was bribed by members of the intelligence community – don’t make a claim against 14 intel.’
I handed him Moran’s sketches of Camp Bad, as well a few photographs taken. He sat and I handed him a cup of tea. ‘OK, we’ve outlined the operation in Djibouti, you get an exclusive.’ I handed him Moran’s notes and comments, none of it classified or sensitive, as well as photos of Smurf and Bob in gear. Since they were dead their images could be released - usually with permission of the family, which I did not have.
The guy rushed back to his office, and I let the Major know what I had done, as well as Bob.
The next morning I went to buy The Sun, finding a not so subtle four page spread on Djibouti, that they had labelled it as an exclusive, and I was being treated like a national hero. What they had also done was run the claims against ‘Wilco’ from a Catterick girl, and that a jealous intelligence agency “from Northern Ireland” was behind the claims.
Bob called me early to say that the Yorkshire paper had run their story, but were now furious about being trumped by The Sun and made to look like liars, and that the girl could not get out of her house for reporters.
An hour later, and after many calls to me from senior officers with concerns, Bob reported that Blowjob Betty had a best mate, and that her best mate had spoken to the police – after she had spoken to the Sun newspaper reporters – and confessed her knowledge that the father of the child was a local garage mechanic, and that Betty had been promised £10,000 from unknown men to name me.
Betty got herself arrested, a blizzard of camera flashes outside her home, the BBC lunchtime news running the story, the question of inter-service rivalry being discussed by a former SAS colonel, and he made it appear that the various agencies were at each other’s throats – which they were more or less.
Special Branch and SIB officers had already been on their way up to see Blowjob Betty, and whilst in custody she was shown a great many photographs and she picked out two men from 14 Intel, who were now well and truly screwed.
The next morning The Sun ran the story front page, my innocence proven – more or less, and inside they had a two page spread listing all of the cock-ups of 14 Intel over the years, as well as the claims of collusion – which I guessed was Bob’s handiwork.
Around the base, men were concerned, all wondering if they had been taped, and wondering what they might have said – and would I kill them. Sergeant Crab was worried, and with a gob like his I could see why. Still, it would do some good if they blabbed less.
That weekend we decided to show our two new French lads the nightclubs in Cardiff, but when Bob found out about the plan he had two plain-clothed Cardiff police officers dragged in and two SO13 armed officers; he was taking no chances at the moment.
Dressed smart, we used the usual coach company and put it on expenses, just under an hour to reach Cardiff – cheekily parking next to the central police station, and we soon hit the better quality wine bars. Tomo got plenty of action with the ladies from the start, but Travis would always trump him for the best looking girl, something of a competition going on, but then Jacque displayed his expert hand.
Jacque was a good looking man, few scars, plenty of black hair, a Mediterranean appearance with olive skin and doe eyes, but his technique was to grab a wine menu and pretend to struggle with it, then ask his chosen lady to assist, his French accent making them go all wobbly and to start playing with their hair; he even took girls off Travis and collected phone numbers.
Rocko and Rizzo were not happy, slagging off ‘the pretty boys’, and trying to pull the mates of girls pulled by our handsome trio. When one of the handsome trio got out of line Rocko would tell the girls that he was their boss, and that helped.
We managed to get back to the coach without major incident or shots fired, Tomo and Travis having been lost hours earlier, Jacque having got a taxi with a girl. Even I was feeling a little jealous, Henri feeling his age, 34 years old, and we took no pleasure in winding him up about his age.
The following Monday, and with mugs of tea in hand, Tomo and Travis were boasting of their succ
esses with the ladies, Jacque just shrugging when asked about his lady.
Assembled, I began, ‘OK, we have a secret mission for a select few men.’ They puzzled that with adopted frowns. ‘Rocko, Smitty, Tomo, Napoleon, Travis – do you have anything on this week that you can’t get out of ... or don’t want to get out of?’
They exchanged looks.
‘And you Jacque, I assume that you are available to do some work?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he responded.
‘Right then. You lot will, when I say go, go home and get civvy clothes, pack boots and clothes suitable for hill walking, no weapons, ID taken, warm jacket, small first aid kits, little else. You will meet back here at noon, when the coach will take you.’
‘Take us ... where?’ Tomo puzzled.
‘On your secret mission ... to the South of France, one week’s mountain climbing training – civilian school, some time in the evenings for a beer and some good food. Rocko, keep them in check or we’ll have paternity suits against the detachment.’ They laughed. ‘Captain Moran, next Monday you take five men down.’ I made eye contact with Rocko. ‘Go...’ I carefully mouthed and he stood, tea mug down, lads waved up.
After they had left, I said, ‘OK, rest of you who are free, we have the range down at Severn Tunnel booked, we leave when ready, get the weapons, plenty of ammo. Captain Moran, hold the fort in case we get a call. Henri, you’re with Sergeant Crab in the Killing House.’
At the range – the smell of sea air and mud on the breeze, we had two men in the butts with radios, two targets up and down, two men sniping at 500yards, scores listed. But an hour after we got there a three-tonner Army lorry turned up, a Second Lieutenant stepping down.
He saluted me. ‘Sorry, Captain, we must be double booked.’
‘That’s OK, you can fire alongside us if you like. Who are you anyhow?’
‘Chepstow Military College, a bunch of keen young apprentices. And you are ... oddly dressed, sir?’
‘SAS. I’m Wilco. Get your lads down.’
Wide-eyed, the young officer got his lads down, and they were mostly seventeen or eighteen.
‘Staff Sergeant Rizzo?’ I called, and Rizzo came over, rifle slung as the apprentices assembled. ‘These fine young lads are future heroes in the making, so give them all a lesson and we’ll see if they can shoot.’
Half an hour later myself and Rizzo knelt next to the young lads as they fired off our AKMs. When each lad had fired off ten rounds we moved down the range to one hundred yards and set up the 12 inch metal plates, the young lads trying to hit them in the standing or kneeling position, my lads practising rapid fire techniques next to us.
Breaking for lunch, I gave the young lads a quick lesson on my pistol, and I let two of the lads fire three rounds each only since my ammo was limited.
After lunch, the best four young lads each had a weapon and a full magazine, and practised moving and covering fire sideways across the range before their officer resumed normal range work with the SA80 alongside us at 300yards. When they were ready to leave they thanked us, a lad producing a camera, so I stood in the group with my cap pulled down over my face.
They saluted and headed off, and I felt like a captain for a change, a real British Army captain – apart from having to hide my face.
On the Tuesday we spent time at The Factory, and that afternoon the RSM turned up with a few territorials and signals lads, as well as dog handlers, and we moved to Stalag Luft 13. Pockets were emptied into bags and labelled up, and we were searched thoroughly, our usual jackets taken off us, old brown Army coats from the First World War handed over, and they stank. With woollen hats on heads, armbands on giving us each numbers, we entered the prison whilst being barked at by dogs.
Locked inside a wooden hut, I put a finger to my lips, the lads checking that we were not being monitored. Using sign language, we checked the hut for listening devices, none found.
Moran began, ‘First we need to note their numbers, dogs, patrol times, shift changeovers. That could take at least a day.’
I nodded. ‘Rizzo, Stretch, test every wooden panel in here, floor and roof, no noise. Slider, door and its hinges, Salties, check the windows, but be subtle.’
I started to whistle the theme tune to The Great Escape, the lads smiling as they checked our new happy home.
‘Someone coming,’ was hissed a quarter of an hour later, and we all sat down or lay down.
The RSM stepped in, a man with a dated WWII machine pistol levelled at us, and the RSM handed us coal, wood and matches for the dated stove, playing cards, a dated metal kettle and old metal cups, tea and coffee, sugar. ‘Evening meal is eight o’clock, evening head count is seven o’clock. Anyone gives us trouble, no coal, no coffee, you go cold.’ The sadistic bastard seemed to be enjoying himself.
And he left us with that as we got the stove going.
At 7pm we lined up outside, a head count done, the dogs snarling at us, old weapons levelled at us, and at 8pm we ate – if you could call it eating; we had potatoes, carrots and cabbage, and not much of it.’
Back in the hut we complained about the food, but soon had another worry as the temperature dropped.
Moran noted, ‘We need a stag rotation to keep the fire going or we’ll freeze.’
Rotation set up, we returned to examining our prison in dull yellow bulb light.
Rizzo said, ‘I reckon I could duck away after evening meal, they didn’t count us again, and under the meal hut.’
‘And then what?’ I asked. ‘They have dogs, remember.’
‘Well, it’s the start of a plan.’
Slider put in, ‘Window frames will come out, so we can get outside.’
Dicky said, ‘Floorboards will give, but I don’t know how much noise it’ll make, or that we’ll be able to put them back as it was for inspection.’
That inspection came at 9pm, everyone searched, the hut searched carefully, but they came back at 11pm, leaving us wondering about night searches. Discussing ways out, we lay down to sleep, one damp old blanket each, the smell of smoke ever present, woken at 2am by another search. This was not going to be easy.
By the following evening we were cold and hungry, which was the whole idea, and after a week here we would be weak, so we decided that we would have to do something sooner rather than later.
Moran had worked out the shift changes and patrols, and we now knew the gaps, and we had a plan, and we had discussed it at length.
First, the dogs. We threw small strips of torn underwear wrapped around rocks collected from the under the hut, after we had removed a window pane either side. Panes back in, we observed as the dogs went nuts, the handlers losing confidence. Then it rained hard, which would work to our advantage, the patrols creating a muddy track around the perimeter.
After the 2am search, which came at 2.45am, we got ready, and we timed it well.
At 6am the guards found a hut full of smoke, the door barricaded. It took them a while to get in, and they found the hut empty. Outside, they found a make-do ladder up against the inner fence, blankets tied together between the fences, a kind of rope bridge ten feet wide. The RSM, when he arrived, was mad as hell and shouting at our guards; he had lost the price of a curry to me.
Ambling around the side of a building in our long brown trench coats we approached our previous home, smug grins for the RSM as he cursed under his breath. We took the rest of the day off.
On the following Monday, Moran took five lads down to the South of France, Rocko giving me the detail of the training – he was pleased with it, and the detail of the Pretty Boys shagging barmaids and chambermaids at the hostel – he was not pleased with it, not least because he had not gotten any.
I asked Smitty if he learnt anything.
‘We started simple then got the harder climbs quickly, and we went up a few cliffs - like three hundred feet. At one point they threw a rope off the side and we abseiled down this sheer face, scary at the top, I wanted a parachute. And we tackled an
overhang that was over a river, no safety rope.’
‘Who fell in?’ I knowingly asked.
‘Rocko did,’ they laughed. ‘And Tomo.’
‘And Jacque, can he climb?’
‘He’s a good climber, yeah,’ Smitty informed me.
With the RSM having made a few changes, Rocko led a group of the Pretty Boys to Stalag Luft 13. They got caught trying to escape on the second night, nipped by the dogs, no food or coal for them, and on the third evening the alarm was raised as a jeep caught fire, the prisoner’s hut found empty, the RSM cursing after he arrived. With the RSM leading the prison guards off, my lads came down from where they hid in the attic space of the cook house. They had not actually escaped, and we had to explain a burnt out jeep.
The fact that they had not escaped was kept from the RSM – we did not wish to burden him with detail, and he would have regular troopers in Stalag Luft 13 the following week, wagers laid off.
I enjoyed a date with Captain Samantha on the Wednesday, and I gave her the story I had been given, but subtly. I then gave her a good shagging, and less than subtly. Bob called me on the Thursday morning, which did not come as a surprise.
‘Bob, you must be psychic, or a spy – I was just thinking of you.’
‘Just a pen pusher. So ... how did it go with Samantha?’
‘Great, good sex.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Oh, the story. Yes, dropped that in.’
‘She spoke to my opposite number in Research early this morning, and now he seems smug.’
‘Not as smug as you, I’m sure.’
‘Well, we’ll see if he is dumb enough to take the bait.’
‘And ... Samantha?’
‘Could not be trusted.’
‘She’s not done anything terribly wrong, and as far as she sees it she’s not reporting to an outside agency, but her future boss. Only wrinkle is your ego.’
‘Well ... I’ll do what I can to persuade the Director that she can’t be trusted.’
‘She seems uniquely qualified to work for you from where I’m sat,’ I teased. ‘What’s happening with 14 Intel?’