by Geoff Wolak
It took hardly any time to reach familiar gates at Brize Norton, the tall sunflowers in bloom either side of the approach road, and we pulled up at a familiar Departures Lounge. Morten and his team greeted me, a few new faces, the Pathfinders with their officer again, but also bringing two redundant sergeants, 2 Squadron fielding two flights again, Haines greeted like a family member.
‘Read about this Lone Wolf programme,’ he said, his men around me. ‘Something we should be looking at?’
‘Not really, it’s designed to find and train men for naughty jobs, the kind where you don’t come back. It’s not about team work.’
‘Two of ours who did well on the three-day scenario have accepted positions in “D” Squadron,’ Haines told me.
‘They have?’ I puzzled.
‘Thought you knew.’
‘No, were they Externals to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that was cheeky of Colonel Rawlson. I didn’t get the memo.’
‘Two Pathfinders as well,’ Haines pointed out.
I went and chatted to the Pathfinders as we waited, and they confirmed that two of my Externals had been pinched away. Sat back with Moran, Swifty and Mahoney, I informed them, ‘Colonel Rawlson has been sneaky, he offered four of our Externals straight transfers, no selection.’
‘We’re down four men?’ Mahoney asked.
‘No, we have replacements, men who did well on the three-day, but new to us – no experience.’
Moran pointed out, ‘You said you were happy with that.’
‘Yes, but a memo would be nice before he takes four men away from us.’
‘Was it recent?’ Swifty asked.
‘Yes, a week or two ago. But he never said anything in Sennybridge. If he wants the men, fine, but why be sneaky about it?’
Mahoney said, ‘Man still has issues with you.’
Swifty put in, ‘If they’re in Credenhill then we can borrow them anyhow. And maybe they’ll teach the rest a thing or two.’
Our plane was late, as ever, but we finally boarded our Tristar as it poured down with rain, everyone damp from climbing the steps, a Hercules on its way with our kit and ammo, two French Pumas to be made available for the week – hopefully reliable ones.
After we had levelled off I moved seats, the plane half empty, and I spoke to the would-be Skyvan pilots, their boss dragging his feet and being a pain. I would have to get Bob involved.
I moved again, a nod at Mally and his five, and caught up with gossip from Morten and his team of medics, a very attractive nurse now in the team, a cute smile for me. I assured them all that this was simply training, no fighting, then moved back to the 2 Squadron lads, a long chat to Haines, new faces welcomed – talk of the three-day scenario, then moved again to the Pathfinders.
The Pathfinder officer was just as difficult to chat to, one of the sergeants a bit inconvenienced by this trip and seemingly wanting to be elsewhere, his men shooting him daggers and rolling their eyes a lot. I chatted to the two new men, surprised to find that they scored 92 and 93 on the three-day.
Back with my team, I said, ‘Two Pathfinders back there scored 92 and 93 on the three-day.’
‘Candidates for us,’ Moran noted. ‘Before Rawlson pinches them away.’
‘Pathfinders are not fond of the regular SAS,’ Swifty pointed out. ‘Like Rocko.’
‘Couple of new lads in 2 Squadron, two got scores in the high eighties,’ I added.
‘We grabbing any Wolves?’ Swifty asked.
‘Not planning to,’ I told him. ‘But they are available. Sasha’s boys will work with us.’
‘They’re a good bunch,’ Mahoney noted.
‘I think ... two troops of eight as standard,’ I floated.
‘Seems about right,’ Moran agreed. ‘Small and tight. Any bigger and Rawlson will be concerned. We have eight men in support as well, nine with Sasha.’
‘Sasha’s team would probably come with us on any job,’ I mentioned. ‘So that’s five more in the field, then the Externals, support from the regulars.’
An hour later I sat with Sasha’s team, chatting in Russian.
The Tristar landed in late afternoon sun, and when I stepped out the door I was hit by the heat like a slap to the face.
‘Fuck,’ Swifty said. ‘We’re going to roast here. Let’s jog slowly.’
‘It’s a desert in summer,’ Mahoney quipped as we clattered down the steps to a familiar base, our American cousin wearing his trendy sunglasses, whereas we had forgotten ours.
But we would not be staying here at the airfield, we’d be at the range with the made-up target village, the RAF support crews and Hercules based here, some of the medics, plus Captain Harris and a buddy. Modern buses stood waiting for us, and they looked like they were normally used to transport pale European tourists. At least the air-con worked.
As we sat waiting we could see our kit being loaded to trucks, which I was not at all happy with, so I had one lad travel with each truck, pistols under arms.
‘You expecting trouble?’ Mahoney asked as I got back on the bus.
‘No, I’m expecting local thieves having at our kit and selling it at the local zouk.’
The buses eventually followed the trucks, because the drivers had no idea where to go, and the lead truck had a local police officer – who we hoped knew where to go. Out the gate we joined good roads and picked up speed, just twenty miles to cover, and we made good time past isolated irrigated fields full of green produce, old men bent over that produce.
Turning up a dusty track, the bus driver went so far and then refused to go any further, so we got out and walked – no tip for our driver. We walked a mile, and found our trucks next to the huts we had first used, military police waiting. I even got a salute.
Kit off the trucks, the lads sweating, we piled the crates and boxes into huts, soon getting bandoliers on, webbing on, rifles checked. Since there was a water truck dripping its contents into the sand, and labelled as “potato water”, we filled out bottles.
‘Should that be potable?’ Moran asked. ‘As in drinkable.’
‘It doesn’t taste of potatoes,’ Swifty noted after a good drink.
Flysheets grabbed, ammo crates carried, I left Crab and Duffy with the huts for now, the spare kit and crates to watch out for, and tasked them with getting supplies for us when a promised jeep turned up. The Skyvan pilots looked a bit lost, but they would be staying at the huts with Crab and Duffy.
When all the various units were ready, some with huge backpacks or Bergens, I led them off east half a mile to the range, all spreading out beyond the 500yard mark, the furthest firing position for the butts, and we got comfy next to the same fence we had made use of before.
There was a good supply of dried old twigs lying around, so flysheets were tied to the fence and then raised with twigs. Poncho underneath, and we had a happy home as the sun went down.
I walked along to the 2 Squadron lads. ‘Mister Haines, bonfire here in the middle, two men at either end at all times, armed and ready. Not expecting any trouble, but there are plenty of people who would have our kit away.’
The Wolves were together in pairs, happy homes made against the fence, Sasha’s team at one end. I called them all out. ‘OK, nothing much happening till dawn, and till the French get here, so make a bivvy and get some rest after 10pm, be awake at 5am. If you take a piss, do it over the ridge here, take a shit off the side of the range. You can cook, and if you need more water go back down, but always in pairs, always armed.
‘There should be no danger here, it’s a safe country, but you never know. Besides, it’s good practise to stay vigilant. Clean weapons, check kit, take it easy. Dismissed.’
I stepped to Mally as the light faded, three ponchos up. ‘Take it easy till dawn, and dawn is around 5am, so to bed early, gentlemen. Need anything, ask me, or go down to Sergeant Crab and get it.’
‘We get any trouble here?’ Mally asked.
‘No, this place is safe, f
ull of tourists,’ I assured them.
‘And the exercise?’
‘Wait and see,’ I told him.
Back at the stretch of fence occupied by Echo, I called in Rocko and Rizzo. ‘Nothing happening till dawn, then we’re on the range, and ... French should be arriving sometime. We have the use of their Pumas.’
‘Safe Pumas, are they?’ Rocko snarled.
‘As safe as previously demonstrated,’ I quipped.
‘So not safe at all,’ Rizzo noted.
‘From tomorrow, all of Echo will form a team for games, and this week will be one big contest, each day getting more complex. I can’t brief you beforehand, but it’s nothing for men of your calibre to worry about.’
They exchanged looks, knowing I was taking the piss.
‘Any nice nurses, Boss?’ Travis asked.
‘Yes, one is a peach. Go see if she likes smelly, sweaty, sandy men.’
Sat next to Swifty, Moran and Mahoney in the sand, we cooked rations and chatted, a few men coming to find me and bother me with very silly questions – like where to take a shit, and are there snakes.
After rations I did the rounds, reminding people of the 5am dawn, and then jogged down to the huts. The police were still in attendance, a good sign, Crab and Duffy cooking with our pilots.
‘Tomorrow, Sergeant Crab, issue rifles and kit to these pilots, and when you have time get them up to speed, time on the range when we’re off elsewhere.’
I faced the pilots. ‘I have a few things in mind for you, like map reading and long walks, making use of this place. Aim is to get you started on the long path to being super soldiers.’
‘We’re a big long in the tooth for that,’ one complained.
‘If you work with Echo, you’re in danger all the time, even back at the base. So you prepare yourselves, gentlemen, just in case.’
I topped up my water, Crab offering me bottled water. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘They dropped it off, tonne of it.’
I walked back up lugging a heavy pack of eight bottles, dumping them down next to Echo, a bottle handed to Henri, one each to Rocko and Rizzo, Stretch and Slider, some for my team. ‘More down at the huts.’
I used sand under the poncho as a soft pillow, jungle facemask on, gloves on, and got comfy, rifle at my side, pistol under my arm.
‘Are there mozzies?’ Swifty asked through the dark, crickets chirping nearby.
‘No, because mozzies need water,’ I said. ‘So unless there’s a stagnant canal somewhere close, we’re OK. It’s the scorpions you need to worry about.’
Swifty put his mask and gloves on just in case, others copying.
The grey dawn light woke me, and peering up through the fence I could see a dark grey-blue sky, a few high clouds. Easing out, everything dead quiet, I stepped over the firing point and took a pee, taking the hills beyond the dummy village. Back at the bivvy I waved at the 2 Squadron lads on stag, a long drink taken from the bottle as Swifty stirred.
‘Did it go cold last night?’ he asked.
‘Yes, deserts go cold – although we are only thirty miles from the ocean.’
‘I was damn warm, then damn cold,’ he complained.
Hexamine tabs broken up, a few twigs added, I got the fire going, my metal tin cleaned out, water poured in, enough for two teas - and some goo known as apricot flakes.
Sat cross-legged, I watched the water boil, Swifty yawning and stretching, soon off for a pee himself, back to sit with me, black plastic mugs made ready, tea bags in, sugar in, powdered milk in.
Water boiled, I poured it into the mugs, enough water left for some goo. Swifty broke open a packet, I broke open a packet, dried biscuits broken and dropped in, the goo stirred. It smelt of something, but no soldier in the British Army had ever identified what it was, they just ate it.
Swifty and I rarely spoke during cooking or eating, and we knew the routine so well we knew what the other was thinking, and meals would often pass like a silent and ritualised Buddhist ceremony, a well rehearsed one.
Half an hour later everyone was sat cooking as I put my kit away, washing it first. Leftover goo in a metal tin was a bad idea, especially in a warm climate. Trick was to make sure you had it watery, the goo; that way it was easier to clean. When the last remnants were left, you added more water, swilled it around, and drank it. Hell, it all ended up in the same place.
Magsee preferred a metal water bottle, but I hated the metallic taste. He also had a small metal cup and small burner that held the cup, and tended to make a quick tea for one person, green tea.
Once the 2 Squadron lads were ready I had one of their flights sent down to the huts for the targets. These were grey man-targets on wooden stakes, we’d have no way to interactively mark the targets.
They came back with arms full of targets, some of the targets displaying a new paper covering, some old and tatty. Two lads carried tins of glue - and brushes that were solid, and in need of some water.
I had the targets placed just a hundred yards away from us, four groups of four well spread out, the rest of the targets dumped to one side.
‘Mally, zero weapons, left four targets.’ The “E” Squadron men moved off with their standard AK47s.
‘Rocko, next four targets, zero weapons.’ He led them off, all with their usual AKMs.
‘Rizzo, next four targets, zero weapons.’ I moved along to Haines. ‘Eight men at a time, zero weapons, then Pathfinders.’
Cracks started to sound out, and after five or six rounds per group that group would walk, jog or run forwards to inspect targets whilst others were still firing nearby – a few rules being stretched here.
The Pathfinders moved up after Mally had finished, SA80 rifles, finally the second flight of 2 Squadron also with their SA80 rifles. All weapons should now have been zeroed, the rising sun casting long shadows.
I got a call on my sat phone from Captain Harris, the French having spent the night at the airfield, and he would be with us in an hour.
‘Mally,’ I called, his men gathering. ‘Right. You are hereby ordered to move from this FOB towards enemy held territory one mile east, where you will find an enemy stronghold looking a lot like an abandoned village with some dodgy walls thrown up in a hurry, guard tower or two.
‘You will sneak-up to within four hundred yards and make detailed maps and sketches, then return. And if the maps and sketches are not good enough ... you get your arses kicked by me. Off you go, you have just about one hour.’
Mally led his team off.
‘Rocko, Rizzo, I want those targets patched up, then I want the same position again at 200yards, but slightly left or right of the other targets – so they can be seen. Patch up any holes please.’
A few of the Echo lads moved off and grabbed targets.
‘Sasha,’ I called. ‘Take your team down to the huts, I saw head-sized targets, go get them, then to the end of the range, leave them in butts ready.’ He led his team off at a steady jog.
I collected the two new Pathfinders, plus the two new 2 Squadron lads, the Pathfinders sergeants moaning about sleeping rough. With a false smile, I offered them and their officer the use of the huts, and they agreed, packing up.
The four new externals stood in front of me. ‘OK, when I say go you will walk east half a mile, up beyond the range, moving as a stealthy team of professionals.’ I pointed at the Pathfinders. ‘Who’s senior?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘You’re in charge for now. So ... you will move half a mile, where you will find an enemy position full of deadly soldiers. You will stay down, and make a sketch and a map. Do you ... have pens and notepads?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent. Having made your sketches you will return and show them to me, inside the hour. There is another team up there, ignore them. Off you go.’
I sent 2 Squadron lads down for water bottles, and they lugged them back up, sweating, a central stores area created near the remnants of the bonfire. I had a po
ncho thrown over the water, which would warm up quickly either way.
The French were spotted, their trucks approaching as Mally returned. I checked “E” Squadron’s sketches and maps. ‘OK, not bad. Go down to Sergeant Crab, there’s paper and pens in the metal crates, large drawing pads. Get some, sit down in the shade and refine these from memory – I want works of art. One hour and back. Go.’
The new four Externals jogged back in soon after, the French marching up, and I checked the External’s village sketches, making comments. They were sent down to join Mally in creating works of art.
I greeted Major Liban, the same man from the Congo, his men insulting Henri and Jacque, Famas rifles slung over webbing. They had plenty of kit with them, so I had them use the side fence to make a happy home. Kit down, they were asked to zero weapons quickly, their Famas 5.56mm rifles. Twenty four men, plus four officers, zeroed their weapons as we observed.
When they were happy, teams were formed, and we had roughly nine teams of ten. I moved a few men around to even it out, myself and Moran being umpires, clipboards in hand, our rifles handed to Haines and his sergeant to use, plus ammo.
I stood on the elevated firing position, the teams spread out below, all in shirts with sleeves rolled up – mostly beige shirts and trousers, webbing over it, caps on heads to keep the sun off. But many of the caps were standard green. ‘OK, are you soft French boys ready for some work?’
They jeered, and threw insults in French at Echo as I smiled down at their major. ‘OK, 2 Squadron second flight, down to the butts, to hold up the head-sized targets – ten of them. If a target is hit, it drops, wait ten seconds and back up – spread right along. Be careful - you can get splinters, don’t look up at the targets when you hold them, use gloves as well. Mister Haines, have the senior man put his radio on ready.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘OK, send the flight.’ They jogged off and around, disappearing into the dusty and sandy butts. ‘First French team, ten hard men and not softy boys.’
They jeered as they took position, one man to a lane, the lane numbers clear enough at the butts.
