by Geoff Wolak
‘Be careful,’ the Colonel urged.
I made firm eye contact. ‘He goes, one way or another. I’m an officer in the SAS, I’m not going to see a headline about an SAS officer fucking small boys.’
‘Damn right,’ the Major put in.
‘There’ll be no evidence, so don’t worry,’ I told them before walking off.
The Major came over later and claimed the second office, cleaning it up a bit – his favourite mug brought with him as well as photos for the walls and a name tag for the door, certain files brought in, and he sat with O’Leary for an hour discussing staff files, training schedules, and “E” Squadron men.
He created an outline plan for Mali and then taught me how to make the plan, which forms needed filing in, requests for the RAF, etc. He had done it all before a hundred times, and did it for us back in his old office, but would now handle it direct.
Considering staff structures, we decided that Stretch, Slider and Swifty would wear sergeant stripes, and that Stretch and Slider would be 2ic per troop, Swifty kept as our wandering training officer. Dicky was senior, and so he would wear sergeant stripes and be senior for the Salties.
The next day we got a plan from Bob, a loose outline, and we sat looking at maps. I had an idea, and called Bob, and he would have two Cessna 152s available in Mali as spotter planes. Flying training was stepped up for a certain few, those who had shown an aptitude for flying and had done well, all of them on the cusp of getting their pilots licences, Tomo, Swifty and Smitty amongst them.
Chatting to the Air Commodore, he was keen for the RAF Regiment to rotate men to Mali for experience, and we would have supplies brought in by Hercules, French helicopters to use in-country. I also asked for two pilots who could fly Cessnas in dangerous circumstances, and he would get back to me.
The SBS were still hurting from the loss of men in Djibouti, but offered an embedded four man team since we already had a few of theirs – the new men all volunteers, which I accepted.
The Major then took a call from the Paras, the Pathfinders wanting some action. We discussed it and agreed to accept a platoon, twelve men, their own jeeps, but insisted on AKMs. Swifty would organise training, and we worried if Rocko would hit anyone he knew in the Paras.
The next day the Air Commodore was back on, a shortlist of fifty two pilots wanting to fly the Cessnas in Mali, which made me smile. Since two of the names were 47 Squadron pilots I suggested those two accompany us, but meet us in Mali, desert combats and survival gear to be brought, as well as binoculars.
On the Friday I drove up to London in civilian clothes and parked under the MOD building, soon signing in, then up to see Bob. His team greeted me, idle chat about Mali for ten minutes, then I grabbed Bob and we found a quiet corner, tea mugs in hand.
‘Have you found out anything about my new colonel?’ I pressed.
‘Wish I hadn’t. I took your suggestion about his activities in Riyadh and checked some old files from the time, and his name was down as having frequented a certain massage salon, all lady boys. No action was taken at the time, and I doubt that the senior officers ever knew about it.
‘My men then ran his name, family and friends, home town, school chums and university chums, one sex arrest – so we followed that lead, his roommate from Oxford, now in a London bedsit, a drug addict who’s HIV positive.’
‘Not the most reliable of witnesses,’ I noted.
‘No, but he did – after a few drinks – point us towards a small town in Devon, and old police files have a man known to them both as being a suspect in the murder of a rent boy. Profile fits Peters as well as this man, who protests his innocence. There was little evidence and so the man never stood trial, but that man got a good job at the Peter’s family estate. Thing is, he never turns up for work, he just gets paid.’
‘To keep his mouth shut,’ I realised. ‘I’m going to get rid of our new colonel, a car accident probably.’
Bob nodded. ‘Be careful. You want a man to assist?’
‘No, what I want from you is that any and all evidence be made to go away, all files, everything.’
‘Well, we always keep files -’
I fixed him with firm eye contact. ‘Make it go away, because some day you may not be where you are, someone else might be, and they might use it. So make it go away before I get annoyed ... and shoot you in the foot.’
He blinked, but then reluctantly nodded.
Back with his team we discussed Mali, aims and objectives, where hostages were being held – mostly French doctors, and when we would insert, re-supply plans. I would have a major from the Press Corp with me to keep an eye on the journalist come photographer to be placed with us, and that man would sign the Official Secrets Act before flying down to meet us.
With sandwiches brought in to us, this was the MOD after all, we sat chatting. ‘Bob,’ I began. ‘There are two ways to deal with someone, the first being the emotional way, as you would deal with Samantha. Take Rizzo: I hated him before I met him, punched him on the first day, then converted to the team and now I can trust him with my life. The first way is not always the best way, and Samantha may prove to be an asset.’
‘And your Colonel?’ he teased.
‘Could not be converted, since past mistakes are not affected by a change of attitude.’
I headed back to Hereford, a plan in mind for Colonel Peters, and Petrov would be coming out the closet, at least his M.O. I recruited Smitty, borrowed Swifty, and explained to Smitty that if he ever wanted to be a spy he needed to learn this technique.
On the Saturday night we followed the Colonel to a local wine bar, where he met old chums that had served with the SAS and had retired. We would make our move when he drove home, a head on smash with a stolen van, an injection under the hair.
The following week, early morning coaches - with a police escort - took us across to Brize Norton, and we sat in a familiar Departures Lounge, no food or drink available as usual. Sat waiting, a major from the Army Press Corp arrived with our journalist and photographer and I greeted them, introducing the journalist to the lads.
‘You’ve been briefed on what you can and cannot say?’ Moran asked him.
‘I had the third degree, yeah,’ the journalist complained, a man in his late forties with a short brown beard.
‘You’re the first journalist to be embedded with us,’ I told him. ‘So be happy.’
‘I was in the Falklands, working for the Standard at the time, so this is all old hat for me. And my grandfather was a war correspondent, so it’s in the blood. Been to Bosnia a few times, I’m used to rough conditions.’
After he had settled, he quietly said to me, ‘Your escape in Bosnia, soldiers still talk about that.’ He waited.
‘It’s classified,’ I said with a shrug.
‘Classified or not, I bet I have more of the story than anyone else.’
I studied him for a moment. ‘Then tell me what you think you know.’
And he did, over twenty minutes, and he had most of it right.
‘How accurate is that?’ he finally asked.
‘Spot on,’ I told him.
He seemed pleased with his research. ‘Can I ask ... why you didn’t surrender?’
‘Why the men, or why me?’
‘Both.’
I gave that some thought. ‘The officer, Captain Tyler, suggested it because officers consider the lives of the men under them. I knew what they did to prisoners, and I saw it first hand. After the lads were killed, I ... knew what they would do to me, so I fought on.’
‘You fought on for revenge?’
I shook my head. ‘I felt sorry for the enlisted men they sent after me, they were poorly led and poorly trained.’
‘I interviewed some, including a lad who made it to the UK and claimed asylum. He was there, in the woods.’ I waited. ‘His unit, they were terrified to go in, certain you were a ghost. They’d seen the men killed, the shelling, the mortars, the dogs. Nothing worked, and few came back
out alive.
‘He told me ... he was in a line of men, twenty of them, cold wet and hungry, and they entered the woods. It went quiet, the wind dropped, then he heard it, a quiet crack, and men started to fall. His best mate was hit and he fell back, landing on top of him, and that saved him. He crawled out slowly later, one of three that made it out.
‘He didn’t realise he had been hit till he tried to stand, then he limped out, and woke up in a field hospital, rows of wounded men, the dead in a line outside.’
‘If you’re trying to make me feel bad, you’re succeeding,’ I told him.
‘It’s odd to finally meet you after doing the research, I had a mental image, and you fit the image well enough. And you move with a confidence, a big strong lad. I know about the field hospital, but not how you got the helicopters in.’ He waited.
‘I came across a group of Serbs raping and killing, and they killed a few as I observed, so I intervened, a gamble because I was half dead on my feet. People I rescued were resistance fighters, and they took me to a man with a phone, otherwise we’d not be having this chat. I met that man later in London, the girl was his daughter, pregnant at the time.’
‘Someday I’ll complete the story, a few angles, try and publish it.’
‘After I’m dead, please,’ I told him after a moment’s reflection.
Boarding the Tristar I noticed our medics, some of the same faces, many different. One face was that of the sergeant medic who had flipped out after the death of a female colleague in Angola, and to be on this flight he must have volunteered, as well as passed the fitness test, so he was making an effort.
The RAF Regiment had thirty men at the back, Haines greeted, familiar faces nodded at, and I noticed a few familiar ground crew faces, nods and smiles given. Our four SBS lads on loan were aboard, our first meeting, Dicky sat with them and chatting.
A long six hours later, yet a comfortable six hours, we touched down in Western Mauritania, a familiar airfield, a monster C5 disgorging jeeps. All personnel off, kit off, we waited for two Hercules to be loaded before we boarded and claimed uncomfortable seating for a two hour flight due east over nothing but desert or mountain – the acclimatisation exercise cancelled.
I had spoken to the pilots, both now very familiar and treated like family, and they had warned me half an hour before landing via the crewman. A signal to Moran, and our metal crates were opened, bandoliers on as we were observed by some of the RAF Regiment lads, webbing on, weapons grabbed.
Landing with a bump just after sun down, I loaded my rifle, my lads copying, and leaving the aircraft I cocked it as we were led across the apron under yellow lights past French Pumas, the back-blast of engines and a roar in our ears, and to a hangar.
“D” Squadron had arrived earlier by Hercules, direct flights, their jeeps lined up in the hangar, and as we stood waiting a few local men in orange vests with trolleys moved towards the Hercules. Henri intercepted a French officer and asked about our accommodation, but he had no clue, so Henri went off to find out.
With our kit now on the trolleys, the local men asking for some money – which none of us had, Henri finally returned and led us off, the trolleys dragged to single storey huts that had seen better days, moths flittering about the lights.
I put two men on stag straight away, told the trolley men we would find some money the next day and that we were just poor soldiers, and we settled in. With dated beds and dated mattresses claimed, personal kit dumped, I headed out and around to the next hut, the Pathfinders already in attendance and lounging around.
‘Ten-tion!’ a sergeant called as I entered. He saluted. ‘Captain?’
A few of his men were a bit slow getting up and seemed inconvenienced. I pointed at a man. ‘You want to be on the next flight out, Fuckwit?’
‘Eh ... no, sir.’
‘My men work to different rules, they don’t often salute, but you work to the Paras rules, and they do salute, so if I see some attitude coming from you I’ll kick the shit out of you, then send you back.’
‘Right, sir.’
I took in the faces. ‘They call me Wilco, real name is Captain Milton, and if I break your fucking jaw I’ll never be prosecuted, keep that in mind.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ the sergeant offered.
‘They’re your men, your standards,’ I told him. ‘But when I was an SAS trooper I saluted and said sir, because I had no axe to grind with authority. Your standards ... are up to you.
‘Now, nothing is going to happen for a day or two, people still arriving, so check kit and relax, make sure you always have water – safe fucking water, but don’t fall into the habit of doing fuck all and sleeping in the heat. If you do, then when you go off on patrol you’ll be sleepy, and get killed.’
I faced the sergeant. ‘Get weapons and ammo sorted, a man on stag at all times. There’s every chance that a local lad will throw a grenade through the window of this hut.’
I left them looking worried, and I plodded on through the dark.
At the RAF Regiment hut they snapped to attention, Haines saluting. I nodded and thanked him. ‘As soon as you can, tired or not, weapons and ammo ready and on patrol around this base, this is bandit country. Trust no fucker. I want two twelve hour shifts with breaks, men in front of the hangars.’
‘I’ll get that sorted,’ Haines offered.
‘We go out on patrol, sir?’ a corporal asked, and I recognised him from Djibouti.
‘Yes, but we don’t know the score here yet. It’ll take a few days to settle in, and we have the heat to deal with. This hut - always a man with a rifle near the door, just in case, weapons to hand at all times, sleep with them, not cocked.’
Through the dim half-light I found the medics erecting their tents on dusty soil near the hangars, the nurses laughing, but they did seem to be making progress. Few noticed me or saluted.
‘You like getting away from the wife?’ I asked the head surgeon as I shook his hand.
‘A few weeks away, and the heart will grow fonder,’ he quipped. ‘Either that or she won’t even notice I’m gone.’
We laughed as we stood in the dull yellow light coming from the apron.
‘What we expecting here, sir?’ a lady medic asked.
‘Patrols will go out, and if we have wounded they should come back in a Puma. If you get an alert, fly out in the Puma maybe, but this should be quiet compared to Djibouti – no rockets, so get a tan and read a book.’
I closed in on the medic from Angola. ‘How you doing, Sergeant?’
He saluted. ‘Fine, sir.’
‘You volunteered for this and got yourself fit..?’
He took a moment. ‘My officers, they echoed what you said, that it would be a waste if I quit, so I’m making the most of it. And ... being here helps to deal with the loss.’
‘You have flashbacks?’ I asked.
He glanced around. ‘Some, yes.’
‘That’s OK, you’re supposed to. And well done for sticking at it; nothing impresses me more than someone who makes an effort after a setback. Everyone gets a second chance.’
Walking around the far side of the hangars I found Sergeant Crab and the two SAS troops, camp beds set up near their lines of jeeps. He gave me a mocking salute.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ I said, very sarcastically. I focused on the camp beds. ‘You don’t have a hut?’
‘When we got here the French officer said that this place gets a cool breeze during the day, just as warm as the huts at night, and that those huts reach a hundred degrees during the day – so we choose this instead.’
I nodded. ‘You may have the better option. What’s the local water supply like?’
‘Plastic bottles that you have to buy, but they’re very cheap, don’t know how safe they are. There’s a canteen that the French soldiers use and it’s supposed to be OK.’ He took a moment. ‘Did you ... er ... find out who was tape recorded?’
‘Not yet, we’re trying hard to keep it all under wraps. Mi6 are de
aling with it.’
A trooper wandered past, a glance at me. ‘No local action, no girls to rape.’
I moved quickly, a back fist taking him off his feet, his nose crunched, a kick into his balls as men came running. I aimed my rifle.
‘No!’ Captain Hamble screamed as he moved in, arms straight out as if to stop me. ‘Don’t do it!’ His words echoed off the hangar walls.
Men closed in, but none tried to get in the way as the trooper rolled around on the floor as I aimed at his feet. He wriggled to move his feet, so I kicked him hard in the stomach.
Facing Hamble, I growled, ‘Put him on the next flight out, or I’ll put you all on the next flight out!’
With a glance back I walked off. Beyond the hangar I tried to calm myself, and I chided myself for reacting like that, but that was no way to talk to me - or to talk to an officer. And if I had shot him, maybe my time as an officer would come to an end. I heaved a huge theatrical sigh and rubbed my face as I plodded on in the dark.
Back in my own hut, Swifty could see my mood. ‘You OK?’
Faces turned towards me.
I took a moment. ‘Trooper just asked if I’d be raping any of the local girls, I hit him.’
They exchanged looks.
‘How bad is he?’ Swifty asked, now worried.
‘Nothing serious,’ I said as I took my kit off. ‘They stopped me from shooting him.’ I sighed. ‘I’ll send him back. Or I’ll send them all back.’
Kit off, I took in their looks. Facing Rocko, I said, ‘You know the Para lads?’
‘Most of them.’
‘They OK?’
‘Good at the job, bit of an attitude to some, they’ve been at it a long time. Some I might want to hit after a beer.’
‘No fucking beer around here,’ I said, sitting down.
Our journalist came and found me, and sat near me as I opened my book on the history of this place, a third of it yet to go. I marked the page and lowered it, and waited.
‘I saw what you did.’ He waited, but so did I. ‘What was that all about?’
I heaved a sigh, a look exchanged with Swifty. ‘Trooper wanted to know if I would be raping any of the local girls.’