by Geoff Wolak
‘It was felt that such a thing could never be done with regular SAS, a bad attitude, but I don’t have a bad attitude and I’ve always made an effort to chat to other units and their men and encourage them along.
‘The RAF medics now have a special unit because I asked for it, and they volunteer for it and train hard, and that encourages standards to rise. Inside 2 Squadron RAF Regiment it’s the same, a special unit for supporting me, volunteers with good attitude, and the regular SAS volunteer to come on jobs with me, and that encourages a rise in standards.’
Rawlson nodded. ‘The good publicity is spread around, other units get a feel-good factor, keep the top brass and politicians happy.’
‘Recruitment is all about perception, sir, the perception young men have about a future military life. The enemy of good publicity is barracks duty, men getting bored.’
‘And your assignments are set by ... who?’ Rawlson pressed.
‘In theory they should be set, or at least discussed and approved, by this gentlemen,’ I said, pointing at the general from UKSF Directorate. They exchanged uneasy looks. ‘In reality they’re set by the head of operations at Mi6 with a nod from the JIC, but you could ask us to accompany you on a job, sir.
‘But the fact is, most jobs suitable to the SAS in peacetime come to me first, and I ask for your lads to come along because I want them involved, not going stale.’
‘And this three-day test?’ Rawlson asked.
‘Is voluntary; some do it, most can’t be bothered with it. Captain Hamble, sleeping in the hangar, volunteered for it and did well, and my Captain Moran, he got ninety-two percent, which makes him better than most all of the regular troopers.’
‘And if I made it compulsory?’ Rawlson posed.
‘You’d probably have a mutiny from the older lads, and the results would be embarrassing. Take Sergeant Crab out there, who I take along on most jobs. He has twelve years in, a great deal of experience, but he wouldn’t finish the three days.’
Rawlson nodded. ‘I see. And your problems ... with 14 intel?’
I took in the faces. ‘They’re ambitious, sir, at least they were. They want Mi6 disbanded so that they take on that role, and for the SAS and SBS to be under their control.’
‘That’ll never happen,’ the man from the UKSF Directorate scoffed, Rawlson and others nodding.
Rawlson began, ‘I was in Northern Ireland when their man Captain Bromley was unearthed – apparently by you, when their man south of the border was shot in the company of an INLA cell – rumoured to be by you, and you got kidnapped yet shot dead six IRA gunmen – an odd event yet to be explained. Some believed that Mi6 wanted to set-up 14 Intel, and that you were the instrument of that set-up.’ He waited.
‘I’m flattered, but the assumption is wrong, sir. Still, if people want to think I’m some James Bond ... fine.’ I shrugged.
A second colonel asked, ‘And what do you see as the future role of your detachment – if you were to give a candid appraisal?’
‘A candid appraisal?’ I made a face, then thumbed at Rawlson. ‘If this guy did his job properly, and so did his predecessors, my detachment would never have been formed and would not be necessary. We’re doing the job the SAS should be doing.’
They exchanged uneasy looks for a moment.
‘I guess that answers that question,’ the same man said as he held his stare on Rawlson.
Another colonel put in, ‘Could you expand on the number of units you draw men from and train with?’
‘I should think so, sir. Fact is, there are few chef’s assistants out there that are excellent fighting men, they just don’t know it. It all comes down to motivation and attitude, and if a war broke out those chef’s assistants would surprise us all.
‘Back at 2 Squadron RAF Regiment, the men compete now to work with me, standards rise, everyone is happy. We have Paras Pathfinders here because they asked to come along, and they get some experience of action, valuable experience, not exercise after exercise.
‘IfI was in charge of SAS selection, I’d alter it to look for potential in a man, the fitness coming later. As it stands, if a man in selection takes a wrong turn he’s kicked out, whereas I would give him a second chance. With me I have a territorial lad who did well on my three-day scenario, and he’s proven good in action, plus a young lad we took out of the Glass House.’
‘Prison?’ Rawlson baulked.
‘Yes, sir, a fertile recruiting ground for units such as mine, because we send men off to do naughty jobs for Mi6.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘The reason I have men from other units, sir, is that your lot are not up to it, either in ability or attitude.’
‘Something I’ll be looking at.’
‘Start with the old timers, those time served, sir. You’ll often hear them telling new recruits that it’s all a pile of shite and that they’d be better off elsewhere. Bad attitude is passed down, from the seniors.’
‘And that man you mentioned, time served, Sergeant Crab?’
‘He’s better than most, and I know how to treat him. I ask for his advice when I don’t need to, I send him lads to train so that he feels involved.’ I smiled. ‘He likes to come along on these jobs, to back up his bullshit over a pint.’
‘The men blab outside the base?’ Rawlson asked.
‘Tell them it’s a secret, sir, and it’ll be all round Hereford inside a week.’
‘And your lot?’ he unhappily pressed.
‘Know that I would kick the crap out of them. They also know the risks, and they know the IRA came for me.’
‘And Major Bradley’s role?’ Rawlson asked.
‘The unit has grown from our original three men, now two troops, two captains, two troop sergeants and 2ics, so it was logical to have a senior officer to control things. Major Bradley was due to retire or emigrate, so I asked him to work with us, and Mi6 approved it.’
‘How very odd,’ Rawlson let out. ‘A captain inviting a major to be is boss.’
‘Acting Captain, sir,’ I said with a grin. ‘And not a proper one at that. Whenever I choose a course date, at Greenwich, they find me a war to go fight in. I’ll be dead before I finish the course.’
The brigadier said, ‘Many a good man received a field commission in the Second World War, leaders of men, not pen pushers – as you refer to General Dennet.’
‘Since I’ve saved his life on several occasions, I think he will forgive me, sir.’
‘I was in that hall in London,’ a colonel said. ‘Saw you shoot four men from twenty yards out – they were dead before I blinked, my wife screaming. Then you calmed the crowd, and told jokes. I knew there was something about you then, so acting captain or not, I think you’re a better officer than many I’ve served with.’
‘Thank you, sir. And did ... you and your wife return to a similar function?’
‘We did, not least because you made it seem so important, and I learnt something about the bulldog spirit that day that I should have – as an officer - had all along. But until your wife is in the firing line ... a man doesn’t really know what he’s talking about.’
‘This mission here,’ Rawlson asked, seemingly not impressed with the other officers chit chat. ‘What does it achieve in the grand scheme of things, and Djibouti?’
‘Several things, sir. First – and most importantly, good newspaper headlines, which the Cabinet Office loves, and which my boss loves. Second, we show solidarity with the French, and our own armed forces are shrinking so we may end using French ships and helicopters more often in the future – European integration and all that.
‘Third, we may undertake a rescue, and we usually succeed where others have failed, and the rescues have a genuine need, partly the obvious one – to get back some British Embassy staff, and partly to discourage such kidnappings in the future.
‘And ... to train my men in a live scenario, as well as other units, for that day when we have a genuine need to use them.’
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��And this is not a genuine need,’ Rawlson queried.
‘No, sir, this is politics and training. If my unit didn’t exist then no one would think to send the SAS here, they’d only go for a serious and genuine need. And the reason my team has been busy in hostage rescue is because no one previously had confidence in the SAS to do it. What started with the Iranian Embassy siege was not followed through.’
‘So politics and publicity is a major factor,’ Rawlson noted.
‘It always is, sir. The politicians want to sell arms, and to do that we need to look like we know how to make arms and use them. In West Africa, my team were rescuing people whilst my boss and his chums were trying to sell our kit for Great Britain Plc. Small wars are good for arms sales.’
My sat phone trilled. I focused on Rawlson. ‘Excuse me, sir, probably my boss.’ He cocked an eyebrow as I stepped away. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Bob, we have a problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Word has spread in your neck of the woods about the deaths at the mine, and the local tribes all want revenge – on you and the French. Intel has movement everywhere north and east of you, even movement towards your base.’
‘Shit.’ I sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get the lads ready, keep the intel coming.’ I turned and faced the intel staff, Haines just stepping in with a coffee. ‘Wake up every now!’ I roared. ‘Every second man on the wire!’ I pointed at Haines. ‘All you men on the wire now!’ men darted past me.
I pointed at the senior officers as they stood looking worried. ‘Get back on your fucking plane and go, I’m not having your deaths on my hands, we have incoming!’ And with that I ran out and to my hut, the lads in a panic as they got ready.
‘Rocko, Rizzo, small teams on the wire, spread them out, we’re expecting visitors!’
I ran around to the hangar, men getting ready. ‘Sergeant Crab, two jeeps east a mile, two jeeps west a mile, get ready, we’re expecting company!’
The senior officers were at their plane, and boarding, but when I next turned around Rawlson was stepping up to me. ‘I’m staying overnight, I’ll learn nothing on a fucking plane.’
‘Trying to get yourself killed on day one, sir?’ I barked at him.
‘No, Captain, trying to see how things are done – not read about it, as it says on your fucking hut,’ he testily stated. ‘And don’t forget who’s in charge.’
I sighed, and controlled my anger. ‘You best hang out in the command room, sir.’
Jeeps drove off, men ran to the ill-defined perimeter, and I started a stag rotation of men, writing down names. Each unit called in by radio and we checked positions as Rawlson found himself some webbing and a rifle.
‘What are we expecting?’ he asked.
‘A full-on local uprising, sir,’ I told him. ‘We killed a great many rebels at the mines, now their in-laws want revenge, which is the culture around here – eye for an eye.’
‘We’d see them approaching, surely.’
‘In daytime, yes, sir, but it is wide open country, and at night they could walk up, or snipe at us, fire RPGs. We also have to do our jobs, and for that we need to venture out, and to venture out we use the roads, and those roads probably have dozens of bombers sat ready. South are hills and farms, there are routes they could use to sneak up, and there are gullies out there, it’s not all flat.’
‘Mortars?’
‘They could have mortars and short range rockets, yes, sir.’
Captain Harris put in, ‘We have radio usage close by, within two miles.’
I cursed. ‘It’s a very big perimeter to watch, no fence, and after dark they could sneak up, snipe from distance. They’ll get someone.’
‘You seem ... frustrated, Captain.’
‘My team are not about sitting and defending, sir, we take it to them, surgical strikes. Do we sit here for a week getting sniped at, hit and run tactics?’
‘So what would be your strategy here?’ he asked, and I felt like I was being tested.
‘Hit their home base or their supply lines, but they have a dozen home bases, a dozen access roads and tracks. Civvys use those roads, and we can’t stop and search without some close up fighting and a few dead men. This is police work, counter insurgency, not what we or the SAS were designed for.’
‘Agreed,’ he offered. ‘So your next logical step?’
‘If Mi6 want us to stay, and I will need to consult with them each day, we place OPs and intercept those we think are rebels.’
‘But you don’t sound sure.’
‘If my men stop a jeep full of explosives and open fire...’
‘You’ll lose men.’
‘And maybe we’ll lose a lot of men, and my men should not be lost doing police roadside stop and searches. They do precision rescues.’
‘Yes, quite; the tool does not fit the job. A bit like Northern Ireland, where the SAS don’t patrol the streets, or do stop and search, that’s police and regular army, same here. So where are the police and army?’
‘Local police are not worth a damn, sir, and most are south of this area. French have plenty of men, most well south of us, we’re up here for some sneaking about and surgical strikes. I’d be tempted to leave them to it, this is not our remit.’
‘You’d pull out?’
‘I have nothing to prove, and my men have a great deal of taxpayer’s money invested in their training, they’re not to be thrown away on a wrong job.’
‘Good to know you think that way, rather than just wanting to fight for the sake of it.’
Captain Harris reported, ‘Convoy of local police approaching Sergeant Crab.’
‘They must have heard us,’ Rawlson quipped. ‘Maybe they can do the stop and search.’
‘I’ll go see,’ I said as I stepped out. I grabbed an SAS jeep and driver and set out down the access road, left and towards Crab.
Three hundred yards away I thought I heard gunfire, and then I was sure I heard gunfire. I readied my rifle. ‘Speed up!’
I aimed ahead, unsure of what I was seeing; two jeeps on the side of the road, men running, police in blue uniforms, blue police jeeps turning and driving off, a crackle of gunfire. My jeep swerved suddenly and I was thrown clear, rolling in the soft sand and hitting dried bushes, coming to a stop and now dazed.
Getting up whilst shaking my head, a face full of sand, I shook myself off, still hearing gunfire, and I grabbed my rifle as it lay a few feet away, running back to the jeep with a limp as it lay upside down, the driver sat up in the sand clutching his arm.
‘I’m hit,’ he cried out.
It was then I realised that I neither had my webbing or my bandolier, and a chill went through me. Thirty rounds in the mag, and my pistol.
I leapt up and hobbled quickly towards the other jeeps, a hundred yard sprint whilst ignoring the pain in my legs and now my shoulder, the blue police jeeps driving off, soon beyond two hundred yards. I reached the jeeps, a pool of blood next to a trooper, his eyes fixed and lifeless. Beyond his jeep I found Hamble, an arm wound, not life threatening, next to him a dead trooper, the man hit a dozen times.
‘They took Sergeant Crab,’ Hamble forced out, blood seeping between his fingers as he clutched his arm.
I tapped my chest, no radio, so tapped my pockets, my sat phone somewhere back in the sand. ‘Call it in!’ I shouted at Hamble as I stood, the pain registering, the convoy getting smaller.
I made a decision, a terrible decision, and I jumped into the long-axle lead jeep and started it, pulling away with in a cloud of dust. Gears changed, I put my foot down, but these jeeps were not designed for speed, and at my top speed I realised that I was not gaining on the police jeeps.
Reaching across, I cocked the GPMG and checked the safety, a burst fired into the sand to test it. Glancing over my shoulder I could see kit, rations and water, ammo, no radio.
I sped on, frustrated and angered, but soon realised that this was utterly stupid. Still, my right foot did not want to come off the gas.
/> Rocko had seen everything from four hundred yards and was running with his team.
‘Shots fired, men down!’ sounded out in the command room.
‘Who’s shooting, and where?’ Rawlson demanded.
‘Sergeant Crab’s men have been hit, men down,’ Harris reported with an incredible stare, his mouth gaping. ‘The police, the local police, they opened up on the SAS team.’
‘The police!’ Rawlson shouted.
‘Wilco is approaching them,’ came a voice.
‘Wilco is down, Wilco is down!’
‘Christ!’ Rawlson let out. ‘Who’s 2ic after Wilco?’
‘Captain Moran, sir.’
‘Then find him!’ Rawlson shouted. Quieter, he added, ‘Did you say Moran? I think I know him.’
‘Wilco is up and running, he’s ... he’s taken a jeep ... he’s .... he’s going after the police.’
‘What? Is he mad?’
‘Captain Hamble reporting, sir, the police, they took Sergeant Crab.’
‘Took him, shot our men? Who are those men?’ Rawlson demanded.
‘They were local police, sir.’
An Intel sergeant reported, ‘Captain Hamble is wounded, two troopers dead, Hamble being treated by Rocko.’
‘Send jeeps for him,’ Rawlson shouted.
‘Wilco’s driver was hit, he’s wounded as well.’
‘Christ!’ Rawlson let out, kicking a chair over. ‘Two men dead, two wounded, and by the local fucking police.’
Moran stepped in. ‘Report.’ He then noticed Rawlson and saluted. ‘Sir? Colonel Rawlson?’
‘I’m the new CO for the regiment.’
‘Oh.’ Moran turned to Captain Harris. ‘What happened?’
‘Local police, or men dressed like them, they drove up to Sergeant Crab down the road, killed two troopers, wounded Captain Hamble, took Crab, and then Wilco drove up to them, his jeep rolled, his driver wounded. Wilco, he took a jeep and went after the police, after Crab.’
‘Crazy bastard. Have the Pumas made ready, I want my detachment recalled from wherever they are, we’ll make ready a rescue team.’