by Geoff Wolak
A shout, and I ran past the praying men, a shot fired as a face peered out at us, the blood spatter up the walls.
Glass shattered, and a man in a side room fell into the corridor as Swifty double-tapped bodies behind me. Rifle down, pistol out, I moved forwards on my hands and knees. A shadow, movement, and I rolled onto my back and fired twice, but as the man moved backwards towards the window he was hit three times from outside, glass showering me.
I shuffled forwards to the next room, empty, the last room empty. ‘Where are the fucking hostages?’ I shouted. I clicked on the radio. ‘Check all out buildings for hostages. Main building is secure, don’t fire on it.
Bent double, I grabbed my rifle, pistol away.
‘They ain’t up that end?’ Swifty asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Here,’ Moran said, moving a body. ‘Trap door. Cover me.’
Mahoney stood, and aimed his rifle down. ‘Moran grabbed a ring and pulled up the hatch, the shot knocking Mahoney off his feet. Moran slammed the hatch down.
I raced to Mahoney, finding no blood.
‘It ... hit ... my ... kit,’ he croaked out, gasping for air.
‘Lucky fuck,’ Swifty told him.
I felt his chest. ‘Cracked ribs, take it easy.’ Spinning, I said, ‘Moran, lift from behind, get ready.’ I took out two grenades.
‘Could be hostages down there!’ he hissed.
I put a finger to my lips; pins still in the grenades. Pistol out, Swifty with his pistol out and on the opposite side to me, a nod at Moran, and he lifted. In went the grenades, the frantic shouts and screams rising.
I waited two seconds and rushed forwards, pistol thrust in, upper body moving inside, two backs fired into, the men in grey thobes and not western clothing. Swifty fired twice, and it grew quiet as we peered in, many frightened faces peering up at us.
‘Mally?’
Nothing.
‘Speak English?’
‘Al la François?’ Moran asked.
‘Oui,’ came back.
Moran shouted down, and they shouted back, the hostages soon clambering up. Eight passed me. ‘They’re all French!’ Moran shouted. ‘They haven’t seen any English!’
‘What!’ I shouted.
‘They’re the wrong fucking hostages!’ Moran shouted.
‘Shit,’ came from Mahoney as he lay there. ‘All this for nothing?’
I clicked on the radio with some urgency. ‘Anyone found anything in the outbuildings?’
‘It’s Rocko, found some weapons, nothing else.’
‘Rizzo?’
‘Found the bogs and some animals, nothing else.’
‘Get the jeeps ready to leave, and the trucks, find the keys!’ I transmitted.
‘What now?’ Swifty asked, the hostages now stood outside, most appearing to be well looked after.
I stood staring at Moran. ‘No choice. We have to move on the town.’
‘It’s a big fucking place!’ he protested.
‘If Mally is there,’ I began, ‘then when they see what we’ve done here he’s dead fucking meat. We have to hit it now.’
‘Street fighting?’ Moran protested.
‘Got a better plan?’ I threw at him as I stepped outside. Rocko had a jeep going, so too Rizzo, Slider in a truck and revving it. ‘Moran, tell the hostages to wait in the hills behind us.’
‘And what if we’re tied up, what then? We leave them?’ he loudly protested.
‘No, we come back for them,’ I said, Tomo handing out water to the hostages. One of the hostages had picked up a rifle, and looked like he knew how to use it. To Moran, I said, ‘Find out if any of them know how to use a rifle.’
Frustrated, he turned and shouted questions. Three raised hands, including the man with the rifle, as the truck and jeeps revved.
I led Moran to them. ‘Listen up.’ Moran translated. ‘There are other hostages, in the town, and if we don’t go now and get them they will be killed when they gunmen find out what happened here.’
Moran translated.
‘We have to go now and try and get them. Any gunmen between here and the town will be killed, don’t worry. And we will be back for you. If you have to, shoot, and run up into the hills there. Grab weapons and ammunition, and water.’
Moran translated.
‘I am sorry, but if we don’t move now those other hostages will be killed.’
‘Some understand, some are not happy,’ Moran told me.
‘Tough shit.’ I turned and clicked on the radio. ‘Mount the jeeps and truck, keep to teams, headcount. Nicholson, down to us. “A” Squadron, meet us on the road in two minutes.’ I stepped purposefully towards the vehicles. ‘Mount up, head count.’
Moran was still not happy as he helped Mahoney along.
‘Mahoney,’ I called. ‘Can you shoot?’
‘Yeah, I can fight, just not move too well.’
He sat next to me as I jumped into the back of a blue Toyota pickup, Rizzo driving, Stretch sat next to him. Swifty and Moran eased in and sat, Nicholson running to the truck, the worried hostages watching us go.
The bumpy track led to the road, and I jumped down at the crossroads, “A” Squadron running in, in teams of four.
‘What happened?’ Fishy asked.
‘Wrong hostages,’ I told him.
‘Wrong hostages?’
‘Mally and his men are not here, they’re eight French hostages.’
‘So what now?’
‘We hit the town now, because as soon as they find out about this ... then Mally and his men will be sliced up.’
‘We know where in the town they are?’
‘No, so we look.’
They exchanged hesitant looks.
‘And if it was six “A” Squadron men in that town, about to be executed?’ I shouted at them.
‘I’m in,’ Fishy said.
‘Fucking cowards,’ I said to the rest. ‘Stay here for all I care.’
Swifty slapped my shoulder a spun me towards him, a look that said - stop talking.
‘I’m in,’ four said quickly.
A truck appeared from the north. ‘Get ready, spread out,’ I shouted.
“A” Squadron scattered. I clicked on the radio. ‘Echo in the vehicles, drive four hundred yards and stop.’ I stood firm in the road as they drove off, a decoy for the oncoming truck driver. ‘”A” Squadron, check your fire, it could be a civvy, wait my signal.’
As the truck drew near I could see a shiny black face, not Arab features, and the men we just killed all had Arab features. I held up a hand and the truck eased down. At the driver’s window, I said, ‘Speak English?’
‘Yes,’ came nervously back.
‘What is in the back?’
‘Cement and wood.’
‘I’m sorry, but you have come at a bad time, I cannot let you drive on yet, but you will not be harmed. There is fighting here, down the road. Block this road with your truck and step down please.’
Terrified, he did as asked, “A” Squadron closing in.
‘I need a team to stay here and watch our rear. You can choose, or I will. Four men.’ Four names were called out by a troop sergeant. I clicked on the radio. ‘This is Wilco, we need a rear guard, this fucking road is busy, so Mahoney and Jacque back to me. Jacque, stay with the hostages, get them hidden up the ridge.’
Off the radio, I said, ‘On me,’ and ran down the road to the vehicles, passing Jacque and Mahoney coming – slowly – back up the road. “A” Squadron jumped aboard the truck, I joined Moran and Swifty. I clicked on the radio when the last man was on the truck, ‘Move off now, fast, it’s still early, we might be lucky.’
‘Why the change in plan back there?’ Moran asked me.
‘If that truck can come up behind us, so can others – full of gunmen. This road, near the mine, I want for the Skyvan.’
‘And if gunmen attack the mine?’ Moran pressed.
I scanned the road ahead. Without looking around
I said, ‘Then we’ll have dead and wounded, and a bad newspaper headline, but if you have a better idea, Captain, fire away.’
He had nothing to say, and just sat looking frustrated as we sped down the road, the sun rising.
I began, ‘There are thousands of hostages, Captain, those few back there being just a few of them, and those hostages are not what we came from. We have orders, and those orders are to try and get Mally back.’ I finally faced him.
Swifty put in, ‘We do the job we came to do, we can’t save everyone,’ a look exchanged with Moran.
‘If it goes well at the town we’ll be back for those hostages,’ I assured Moran, calmer now.
Nearing the town, I had a choice to make. ‘Slow down, get ready, don’t fire till I say – or if you are spotted. Silencers on if you have them.’
Holding the cab, I stood tall in the back and peered ahead, not seeing much movement, but I could see a large central building. Most of the houses were single storey, a few half-built or badly built second storey extensions, lazy smoke rising from a few abodes.
I clicked on the radio. ‘Aim for that large building in the centre, park in a side street near it.’
Our small convoy soon passed mud houses and shacks, some brick buildings and shops, few people awake yet, a few dogs barking, and we opened into a main square, a bad place to be ambushed. Rizzo turned right past the large building, the only two-storey building here, and eased to a halt in a side street. So far our luck was holding.
Jumping down, I ran back to the truck. ‘Some of you, up on the roof of the truck, second floor windows, have a look, dead quiet.’ I ran with Swifty to a car next to a wall, up on its bonnet, and then its roof, the roof buckling slightly. Rifle passed to Swifty, I jumped up onto the wall, my rifle handed up.
Swifty handed me his rifle and then scrambled up. From the wall we stepped down onto a low building, a rear courtyard below us, walled in. Lying down, I peered over the side, seeing bars on windows.
‘Bars on windows,’ I whispered. I eased down onto a wall and stepped down into the courtyard, Swifty right behind me, an eye to the window. Men were sleeping on the floor, but I did not have a good view. At the next window I knocked gently, and a white face lifted up, one of Mally’s men, startled to see me.
I pointed left and right, a question. His hand signals indicated two guards at the end. Bent double, I ran with Swifty ten yards and to the corner, peeking around it, no one seen. At the door I knocked, and in Arabic I said, ‘Who made all this mess?’
Voices echoed, a key turned, the door opened. I fired four times, four quiet cracks, the two guards bent in half. I rushed inside. ‘Heads up! SAS! Everyone outside, grab weapons!’ I bellowed.
Mally’s men were on their feet quickly, and none had been beaten or were hurt, but the pilots were a step away from death, now being carried.
Mally grabbed an AK47 off a dead guard. ‘Fucking glad to see you lot,’ he said.
‘Day ain’t over yet,’ Swifty told him.
‘This way,’ I said, leading them to the wall, and we made it before a guard eased out of a toilet, a shout given. I fired twice and knocked him down. ‘Up the wall here, onto the roof, fireman’s lift for the wounded! Quickly!’
Running to a window in the main building, I smashed it with the butt of my rifle and aimed in, sleepy faces rising, three head shots silencing any enquiry as to who was rudely disturbing their sleep.
Swifty fired twice behind me, at a face in a window.
I clicked on the radio, ‘It’s Wilco, we’re coming over the wall, come to us.’
Boots hit the low roof above me, “A” Squadron men landing on the low roof from the higher level, one of Mally’s men handing over a half-dead pilot. The second pilot took a while, many hands pushing or pulling, Mally and his men starting up the wall as gunfire tore up the courtyard.
Turning, Swifty and I fired at those windows where the firing had originated, the “A” Squadron lads above us pumping out rounds. And now the game was truly up.
I fired several long bursts kneeling, a grenade thrown through a window, and finally scrambled up after Mally’s last man, Swifty right behind me. On the roof, a shot found its mark, one of Mally’s hit in the head and dropping.
‘Leave him, he’s dead!’ I shouted, turning and firing. ‘Jump down.’
Loud sounds from the street indicated a car being landed on, a ricochet hitting me in the arm. ‘Fuck.’
‘You’re hit?’
‘Go!’
Swifty leapt over the wall, and I was so close we both rolled down onto the car’s bonnet and off, the roof of the car almost flatted.
‘Drive off now!’ I shouted, jumping into the back of the jeep, one of Mally’s men plus a mess of a pilot already in it. I ended up sat on the pilot as we pulled off.
Rizzo turned a corner, Swifty and I both firing at men in grey or white robes holding rifles, our windscreen hit. We sped down the street till I shouted to turn right.
Rizzo swung us around, heading back towards the mine, but we were in a tight street, men emerging and firing as we passed, and we fired back at them, the jeep’s bodywork hit.
A crossroads, and I fired till I clicked empty, men everywhere, most stood looking and not raising rifles as we passed. Fresh magazine in, weapon cocked, I got ready, but my weapon was almost knocked out of my hand, a round having hit the fore end sight. Frantic almost, I fired back at any armed man I could see, the truck now devoid of its canvas top, “A” Squadron firing out in all directions.
‘Watch your fire!’ I transmitted as we reached the edge of town. ‘Watch the civvies! Cease fire!’
I could still hear outgoing rounds, coming from the truck.
‘You hit?’ Swifty shouted.
‘Arm, a ricochet,’ I said, a glance at it, my brown shirt now black with blood.
Swifty lifted his left arm, blood evident as we sped back to the mine.
Nearing the mine, and the truck blocking the road, I could hear gunfire. ‘It’s Wilco. Men at the roadblock, report!’
‘Two jeeps up the road, dozen men.’
Rizzo screeched to a halt behind the truck, and we jumped down. I darted into the scrub, Swifty at my side, and we dived into the firing position, rifles adopted, sights peered through. I could see a face peeking out from behind a bush, and took the back of his head off, Swifty firing at someone, soon a hell of a clatter as most of Echo opened up, my shoulder now stinging.
Looking left, I could see the driver of the truck, the one I promised would be safe, a round through his head, his eyes fixed and staring up.
‘Rizzo, Rocko, take your men around to the right, through the mine, come up behind them. Use the high ground.’ Off the radio, I said, ‘Swifty, take that truck a thousand yards back down the road, set fire to it. Henri, take a jeep and bring him back. Go!’
Backing up, just the odd shot fired now, I aimed at the truck’s tank and fired, finally setting it alight. Running into the mine, I found Mally’s team – one man short - and the pilots. ‘What state are the pilots in?’
‘Both have gunshot wounds a week old,’ Mally reported.
I took out my first aid kit and grabbed the antibiotics.
‘And Robbo, up on the roof?’ Mally pressed as he knelt over the pilot.
‘Head shot,’ I replied.
‘Fuck,’ he hissed. Looking around, he asked, ‘What happened up here?’
‘Local Intel suggested you were here, and when we hit it we found eight French hostages.’
‘French?’
Seeing his state, I gave him water. For the pilot, I rubbed in antibiotic cream where the wounds were infected, and injected him. ‘Anyone else hurt?’
‘Here,’ said one of Mally’s men.
I taped up a ricochet and set about the next pilot, the man semi-conscious.
‘It’s Rocko, we got these fuckers, can’t see any left.’
‘Watch that road as I call in the planes, any wounded to me.’ I lifted the sat phone and cal
led.
‘Hello?’ came a badly distorted voice.
‘It’s Wilco, land now, you’ll see two trucks on fire, land in between them, wounded at the northern end.’
‘OK, we’re coming down now.’
I clicked on the radio. ‘Get the French hostages to me, and any wounded.’
I stood. ‘Pick up the pilots, in the jeep, get ready for the planes.’ Clicking on the radio, the nearest truck now well alight, black smoke billowing, I said, ‘”A” Squadron, any wounded?’
‘Got a scrape.’
‘To me! Now!’
The man ran over as I heard the Skyvan, and looking up I could see it circling, losing height rapidly. I had a look at the scrape. ‘On the plane.’
The Skyvan came over the top of us, banked hard, and it landed close by, its ramp up ready. I sent the man with the scrape to it, the French hostages being herded toward it at the sprint. I pointed at Mally. ‘Drop your weapons, on the plane,’ I shouted as the medics ran towards me. ‘Lift these two!’
Several hands carried the pilots aboard. I clicked on the radio. ‘Any wounded, to the plane now. Anyone who can’t walk too well.’
I could see no room left on the Skyvan, so I gave the pilot an urgent thumbs up. He put the power on, the sand storm blinding us, and moved off slowly, lifting his nose in no time, the Islander circling.
‘”A” Squadron, on the plane, move it.’ They ran in and knelt. ‘Headcount, check your men, but one is on the Skyvan. And unload your fucking weapons!’
The Islander dropped down almost vertically, pulled up and touched down in a hardly twenty yards. “A” Squadron ran aboard, and it lifted off, the desert soon quiet.
‘Echo, form up in teams, on me,’ I called, walking west at a brisk pace. I stopped and looked back. ‘Mahoney?’
‘On the plane,’ Moran reminded me.
‘Headcount!’
With no one shouting about a missing team member, I led the team off and into the desert, hoping to find our tracks, and after fifteen minutes I did; it looked like a herd of cattle had walked out of the desert.
Following our well-defined tracks, I called Captain Harris. ‘It’s Wilco, planes got away, hostages and wounded, one dead hostage - one of Mally’s men, a head shot, a few scrapes. Mally’s two pilots are alive but in a bad way, might make it. Have the Islander take the wounded to Niger.’
