by Geoff Wolak
‘Yes, but I judge mission survivability on ... how they cope when things go wrong, not on when things go right. If things go wrong, the superstars come home, the rest get you a bad newspaper headline.’
Bob and his assistant exchanged looks.
I added, ‘And jobs going wrong is the norm, not the exception.’
‘They finished the exercise,’ Bob’s assistant nudged.
‘Yes, and they did well, but came in dead on their feet, unable to think. If they reached a border in that state they’d be caught.’ I sipped my tea. ‘If the aim here was to get them ready, as best as they could be, then we’ve done that, and they now have a much better chance of surviving on a live job, and they have the experience – they know what it feels like to be pursued, to be cold, tired and hungry.’
‘They have further training?’ the Major asked.
Bob nodded. ‘Yes, this was all about potential, and about designing and refining a course.’
‘I have an idea about future courses, and I’d probably not throw in a five day exercise like this, but regular twenty-four hour tests.’
‘What would you say you’ve learnt?’ Bob’s assistant asked.
‘That teaching a man to parachute is easy, so are weapons, and eating rabbits, but when it comes to thinking when tired...’ I held my hands wide. ‘The jury is still out on that one, and I admit to having hit a barrier there.’
Moran said, ‘It comes down to personality, and I saw it in the Paras. When fatigued, some men close in on themselves and get moody, some are still cracking jokes. Fatigue is like alcohol - it lets the true personality show through, and personalities need to be carefully selected.’
‘Did you see that here?’ Bob’s assistant asked me.
I nodded. ‘Yes, some of them go quiet when tired.’
The Major put in, ‘And some regulars shoot their mate in the leg. It’s an age old problem, the fatigued soldier.’
‘And the answer..?’ Bob floated.
‘No war,’ Moran said.
I agreed with a nod. ‘In a war, men have a different attitude, they know why they’re fighting. Here, they could think about quitting and getting a civvy job. In the Second World War there was no quitting, and they knew what they were fighting for, so they had a better attitude when tired, and they would push themselves further.
‘There are two types of personality; people like Tomo, who fight for the fun of it and love it, and someone who fights for what he believes in, Queen and country. Those in the middle are the ones that worry me, they might quit and get a job in Civvy Street.’
‘Which category do you fall into?’ Bob’s assistant cheekily asked me.
I smiled. ‘I’m like Tomo, only worse. I wouldn’t say that I’m fighting for Queen and country, but I like to hit the bad guys – so I’m fighting for the hostages, and the villagers who get slaughtered. That probably motivates me more.’
‘And the way to motivate men like the Wolves,’ Bob floated.
‘Not in pleasant English countryside. Let them see a village of slaughtered women and kids, and then have at the bad guys. Get it in focus for them.’
Moran put in, ‘With motivation ... comes more effort and better standards. Not easy to achieve in peacetime, and my own attitude changed when I could see the gunmen close up, and what they were doing. Odd for an Army officer to admit, but I get a great deal of pleasure from blowing the head off some arsehole with an AK47 for a cock. I developed an anger towards them, and that helps.’
‘The Wolves saw action in the Congo,’ Bob’s assistant floated.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And it helped, but they didn’t get to know villagers, befriend them, and then fight for them.’
‘But that is something you could fabricate,’ Bob noted.
‘Yes, easy enough – there’s a world full of idiot gunmen hassling villagers. And in Sierra Leone we had local women and kids with us, and the lads saw what the gunmen did, so they knew what they were fighting for.’
‘And people like Rizzo?’ Bob asked.
‘Here he’s a somebody. Outside ... he’d be a nobody,’ I said. ‘He’s terrified of the world outside and loves it here. Here he has respect and camaraderie. Bin him ... and he’d be a suicide candidate. His motivation is 100%, but he has no off button.’
‘Similar to the time-served regulars,’ the Major noted. ‘And when they leave they go off on one. A quiet night in watching the TV seems great when you’re in a cold wet hide in Armagh, but after a month a TV gets to be very boring – they go nuts. Choosing men and their personalities is important, Bob, as much for what they do after ... as what they do when they’re in.’
Bob slowly nodded his head. ‘We worry about similar things.’ He made eye contact with me. ‘And refinements to the selection process.’
I held my hands wide. ‘I tend to compare them to my lot, whereas you want skills first – soldiering later. If you wanted another young Wilco, then the criteria would be a good distance runner, high IQ, poor attitude. Then we see. If you take a group of men with skills for undercover work, then I train them as best as we can.’
‘We selected Tomo and Smitty,’ Bob began, ‘to be young Wilcos, so how do they compare?’
‘They both need a little more time, but they’re just as good as I was, they can do the job.’
‘And our Russian speakers?’ Bob asked.
‘A little more training, some live jobs, and you’ll have a first class team that could hold its own against anyone.’
‘That’s good to know,’ Bob loudly commended. ‘When they finish here we’d like you to keep training them, so that they’d pass for Russian soldiers, and we’d like you to take them ... somewhere, Congo or Sierra Leone, get the polish on them.’
I nodded. ‘They’re thinkers, so the rest just falls into place. Tomo needs to think more and do less.’
Bob’s assistant asked me, ‘And if we sent Nicholson off on a live job soon?’ getting a look from the Major.
‘I’d not hold him back, and he would not want to be held back.’ I glanced at the Major. ‘At Smurf’s funeral his father put it into context; a premature baby who everyone wrote off, bullied in school, bullied in the Paras, but he made it to the SAS and to Echo. His father would not have gone back and changed anything, and neither would Smurf – even knowing how it ended.
‘Nicholson could break an ankle this week, and it’s all over, or he crashes his car, spine done in. And then he’d be a suicide candidate. I won’t hold them back. If they want to get themselves killed, that’s their choice, not ours.
‘And who the fuck are we to say that he’s better off as a painter decorator, wife and kids. Those choices are not ours to make, and if he’s killed ... his choice, we respect that, we move on. Look at Batman and Robin, screwed in a car crash, not from a bullet. I’d rather the bullet than a car wreck.’
They glanced at each other, a moment to reflect.
Bob’s assistant posed, ‘Nicholson, a year from now.’
‘As good as I ever was. After that, it comes down to luck.’
‘And Tomo?’ he pressed.
‘Needs a year or two, but ... he needs to know what he’s fighting for more than just the fun of it.’
‘Smitty?’
‘Again, a year or two, but he does know what he’s fighting for, he’s a thinker. Tomo is slightly better than Smitty, but Smitty could be trusted more to get the job done and not blab about it. Smitty is a young Swifty.’
As some of the Wolves were being interviewed, and no doubt eyeing up Samantha, the rest were being lectured by a grey-haired old RAF squadron leader. I popped in to listen.
‘Look at next photo and pick out a group of men marching, then the sentries. Raise a hand if you spot them.’
He wandered around the Wolves. ‘That’s a telegraph pole, idiot. That’s a flowerbed, you moron.’
I smiled widely.
He shouted, ‘Look at the shadows. Men are tall, they cast shadows. Ah, now you see them. Thank
god for that, Britain is safe. Now, how long is the parade ground?’
The Wolves scratched their heads.
‘Look at the larger picture, idiots, it shows a shooting range – with distances marked out! Yes, now you see it, so use a ruler to measure out 100yards, then measure the damn parade ground.’
Smiling, I left them to it.
At 5pm, Samantha and her colleague departed, the Wolves were told to eat, and then to assemble at 9pm.
At 9pm, stood under the floodlights, the first ten were issued with masks and snorkels, fins, and we walked around to the armoury, Crab and Duffy, Batman and Robin helping out. Rifles and ammo issued, we walked to the dark range, a few fires lit for reference.
‘OK, when I say go, the men pointed at will put on the mask and snorkel – but no fins yet. You can clean the mouth piece with your water bottle, the canal, or just not give a fuck. Blow down the snorkel in case there’s something in it – like an earwig.
‘You will swim slowly and stealthily down the canal – rifles held ready but underwater, two rounds at the left target when you reach the first battery lamp, two at the second lamp at the right target. You will swim to the end, then run back up to here.
‘You will, of course, need to get the water out of your rifle or it will not work, or blow up in your face. You all know the correct technique to get the water out – don’t fuck it up. And don’t forget magazines. And check pockets and webbing now for anything that should not get wet. Off you go.’
As the first man eased quietly into the water, I set about building a bonfire from bits of wood and old boxes, sheep hair used as kindling, soon two rounds echoing through the dark, a further two echoing after a minute.
When everyone had been through twice, all now soaking wet, I issued fins. ‘Swim a little faster, get used to the fins. They’re extra large, they’ll fit over your boots. Off you go.’
It was suddenly like watching a clown show as some put on fins on the side of the canal.
‘Put the fucking fins on after you get into the water!’ I shouted. ‘Lean back, foot at a time, you fuckwits.’
They finally got it, and off they went, just a snorkel above water, cracks soon sounding out.
Half an hour later, and they had all been through twice, masks, fins and snorkels having been passed around. Poncho’s down, the very wet lads cleaned the rifles in the dark, just an amber glow from my bonfire to illuminate faces. Batman and Robin got ready with the metal plates, a few fires lit to illustrate those grey metal plates.
Weapons cleaned, Wolves lined up, I began, ‘OK, when I say go you will run once around the range at a steady pace and back to here. You will the pick up a mask and snorkel, and fins, and get into the water quickly yet very quietly. You will swim down all the way, out and run back up to here, dropping mask and snorkel on the poncho.
‘You will get water out the rifle, then leopard crawl from here to the four hundred yard mark, very quietly, no mud in the barrel, then hit four metal plates from left to right. Get up and run to the far end of the canal, swim all the way back up here very quietly and out. Simple. Tomo, get ready.’
He stepped forwards. I checked that Crab and Duffy were in position, Batman and Robin safely behind the butts, and sent Tomo off through the dark.
As the minutes passed, a few lads were shouted at for making too much noise, some told to speed up, others to slow down, and cracks preceded the metallic clank of a 12inch plate being hit. And if we had to use SA80 rifles or M16s I would never have attempted this.
A wet, and now very muddy pack of Wolves, jogged back at 11pm.
Outside the barracks I said, ‘Kit off out here, don’t get the barracks muddy, and clean your rifles before lights out, sleep with them – unloaded please. One good way to get your kit clean is to take a shower with it on. Lay down a blanket outside the showers first.’ I made a note to have outside showers rigged up.
In the morning - the local leisure centre having been booked all day, a green RAF bus took the Wolves for a day’s scuba training, Rizzo and Stretch both experts, as well as Henri and Swifty. Some of the Wolves had dived before, and so they practised off to one side before using the gym upstairs, many of the Wolves never having tried it.
Those lads got used to their new silent world, and were then pushed hard, lengths completed underwater, kit off, a length underwater holding their breath – up for air and then back, weight belt back on, stabilising jacket back on, mouthpiece in – mask on and cleared, fins on, and off they went.
Problem was, Rizzo often turned their tanks off when the lads were swimming away, so lads panicked – no air available, but then remembered to check the valve first. Lesson learnt; never trust Rizzo, and always check the tank.
After lunch in the leisure centre canteen, the lads were pushed hard, and by the end of the day they had put on or removed the kit more than a seasoned diver would ever do, all now proficient – hair smelling of chlorine, eyes red and puffy.
Magsee turned up the next day with some odd bits of kit, and the Wolves all had a lecture on navigating across the desert, which stars to look for, water sources, edible plants and animals.
At one point, Magsee was handed a rifle by me and he fired a burst into the grass, placed the end in a tin of water, boiling it, tea made. If you had no matches, but ammo, you could still cook – he explained.
At 4pm I thanked Magsee before I led the Wolves to the armoury, then up to the roof of the barracks. Crab and Duffy, Batman and Robin were in the butts, and from up here we had a view of the four targets set-up. Sandbags placed down, the first four men got ready, eight hundred yard shots, many of the Echo lads observing.
Cracks sounded out, targets dropping before rising with orange marker discs. I peered through my binoculars and confirmed scores. Adjustments made, ten rounds per man cracked out, scores tallied, Nicholson doing well.
At the end of the session I called back the worst four lads, and I knelt next to each, another ten rounds fired, scores improved slightly. Breathing was still an issue for some. They were good, but I wanted them to be very good.
With the Wolves feet now better, Thursday morning was spent on the range, running and firing for three hours, the afternoon spent in the pistol range and Killing House, a great deal of ammo used, weapons cleaned many times. By the end of the day they had each used up three hundred rounds of 7.62mm ammo, and one hundred and twenty rounds of 9mm.
All of the lads shot well now, but I was still keen to see them reach the standards of my lads. Seeing them on the pistol range I was proud, even the worst lads hitting the targets with speed and accuracy, all kill shots. Tomo was like Billy the Kid, and just ahead of Nicholson and Smitty, and he often tended to go for head shots – Sergeant Crab shouting at him.
I had put my head down to the sound of rain, but I woke to a calm still day, and took the Wolves for a modest run in gym kit, their first since the exercise, a call into Pete after breakfast, another call in to Brize Norton, MP Peter sent off with his mates to collect chutes.
Tomo, Smitty, Nicholson and Gonzo dropped from 15,000ft with the bag, tone altimeters telling them when to break and pull, all down safely, the bag landing close to the hangar.
Sasha jumped next to his team, who held the HALO bag, the bag landing on the runway, the team all close by, no broken ankles or snapped necks so far – knees were bent on landing.
The next four got a pep talk from me, some advice, Rocko and Rizzo jumping with them, but the Wolves held their nerve and held the bag, the bag landing next to the para Portakabin. Either Pete was adjusting his aim, or the wind was picking up, the next bag destined to land over the fence.
The next four got a lesson, some advice, Rocko and Rizzo again jumping with them, one lad letting go and drifting off. He pulled his chute on time, and landed close, so the panic was only brief.
The final two lads would jump with myself and Swifty, training given, pep talk given, and off we went. Ramp up, roar invading the cabin, Stretch and Slider stood behind us, a
nd we inched the heavy bag back to the rear, shoulders held, nod given, and we fell out.
The two Wolves held on, but were not very stable, one spinning over before he settled, and he held on with both hands at one point. When we broke I kept an eye on him, but he pulled on time, albeit below 1,000ft, and we landed in a tight group in the north field, next to our bag.
‘That’s probably enough,’ I told Swifty as we walked back across the field, bundles carried. ‘They have enough HALO. If they’re ever tasked with a live HALO drop they’ll get training at the time. We’re risking an accident, and I want someone else to get the blame.’
‘Air Troop want to come down next week, weather is supposed to be good,’ he noted as we crossed our ill-defined and unfenced northern limit.
‘Yep.’
‘What are the Wolves on next week?’
‘Morocco. Bob agreed it, RAF agreed it.’
‘Should be warm. We taking the Externals?’
‘Yes, they need some training, and it’ll be hot as hell this time of year, so proper desert training. And the French are sending men.’
Sunday afternoon I sat down with Moran and Swifty and we finalised my exercise plans, and this would be a dry run for the next intake of Lone Wolves. I called it “Ever expanding circles”, Moran and Swifty happy with the idea.
I had spoken to Bob, and he had agreed that some of the old timers in “E” Squadron could come along, good training for them. Six would come with us, including Mally.
Our two prospective Skyvan pilots were yet to be released by the RAF, but I asked for them for the week, some training, and after getting the Air Commodore involved the two pilots were duly released – but just for a week, to meet us at Brize Norton – and hopefully with some suitable kit.
Monday morning we gathered at 8am at the hangar, kit checked, metal crates loaded, ammo loaded – Bongo stood with his clipboard, rations loaded, desert garb adopted rather than greens, sand coloured ponchos and flysheets packed.
The buses arrived at 9am, we loaded our kit, and we moved off with our usual police and MP escort. This time, however, the buses were quite full. Dicky and Mouri were with us, the other two Salties on an SBS course.
