by Geoff Wolak
Two bits of wood hammered in the opposite side, and we stretched out the lightweight cammo netting, cutting off the excess with a knife.
Trapper stood under it as Castille wandered up to take a look, finding just enough head room. Trapper noted, ‘Place to sit and cook.’
I handed him the remainder of the cammo netting. ‘Once your guys are dug in and camouflaged, walk out a hundred yards and have a look, make adjustments. You’ll see dark dirt up there, spread it around, make it even.’
‘Boys are good at hiding themselves, did an exercise like this in New Mexico,’ Trapper noted.
‘We don’t do this kinda work, you know that,’ Castille said with a smile. ‘We’re hostage rescue.’
‘You can be here, or chasing planes that are never hijacked...’ I posed.
‘Here, definitely. You just hurry on and finish-up the pool and the barbeque area.’
I fetched brown cloth, we had a great deal of it, and I instructed the Pathfinders and 1 Para further down the ditch. They dug into the south side of the ditch, most men making a hole two feet wide and three feet from the top, about three feet deep. Across the top they used sticks to hold the cloth, and they got rifles in place ready after ponchos were placed down.
One man cut out a slot he could stand up in, another wanting to lay down, so that man got up top as we lost the light and he cut a grave-sized outline sloping upwards. He could get in and out from the trench without being seen - without getting shot, and he had placed a sandbag for his all-important left forearm support.
Further down the ditch I found the new Wolves at the bend north, positions being dug out facing south, southeast and east, the men busy, Crab shouting orders.
I told him, ‘Make a fire in here, use it to finish the positions before midnight, ready for dawn. Make sure they get four or five hours kip.’
He wiped his brow. ‘The lads made light work of them three jeeps.’
‘Be more than three soon enough.’
‘We got lots of men,’ he noted, taking a swig of his water.
‘They have more men than us, Sergeant, lots more.’
I walked back down the length of the trench, through the tunnel, and to the French position, pleased that we had dug-in before getting bombed. I ambled up the runway. Slider’s trench now stretched back thirty yards, and it was deep enough for men to hide in.
‘Any news?’ Rizzo’s grey outline asked as he sat with a brew in hand.
‘Wolves with listening devices go out tonight, that might get us some early warning tomorrow. No further intel yet.’
‘That trench down there is good, and the frogs have a good trench, so we’re well dug-in,’ Rizzo approved. ‘Got plenty of supplies, tins of corned beef, bread.’
Smitty noted, ‘A week of corned beef and you won’t say that.’
‘Well, yeah, might need a break from it,’ Rizzo admitted.
Henri told me, ‘The 1st Battalion trench is better than our trench.’
‘You’re mobile, they’re not, you won’t be in the trench much.’
‘Ah...’ he let out.
I faced Sambo’s large outline. ‘You know any of the Legion men?’
‘Yes, sir, many of them, and dee officer. Theys be good men, sir.’
‘Warm enough here for you?’ I teased.
‘Hot in the day, sir, cold at night. I don’t mind the hot, better than the cold at night.’
Haines strode purposefully in. ‘We found something, underground room, maybe like the doctor’s place.’ He led me back.
Torch on, I lay down and peered into a hole that a man had discovered. ‘Hello!’ I shouted, my words echoing, the RAF Regiment lads laughing. I eased up, ‘It’s twenty yards wide. Dig it out, have a look, don’t fall in, it’s about ten feet deep – so find the steps.’
Haines was back to me an hour later. ‘There are no steps down.’
‘Make some, or get some rope, have a man go down and have a look.’
He headed off.
‘What was it for?’ Moran’s dark outline puzzled.
‘I reckon fuel storage, unfinished, sat ready.’
Haines came back half an hour later, using his torch to find us. ‘Big room, could play football in there, and they found two passageways halfway up the walls, say three foot square, so we’re digging them out to see where they go.’
‘How solid is the roof?’ I asked.
‘Twelve inches of concrete.’
‘So very fucking solid,’ Mitch noted.
Haines was back at midnight. ‘Found a way in and out, two of them, but you have to crawl. Those passageways extend ten yards and then just stop.’
‘Dig a trench near the openings, that place is yours to use when mortars come in, and your guys can sleep in there, but make up a good ladder.’ I stood on the runway and transmitted for all teams to get some rest, to be up before dawn and cooking, ready for first light.
I woke as the grey light seeped into my facemask, but I sat there for a while, perhaps twenty minutes, the flat horizon devoid of anything to worry me, devoid of anything at all. Easing up and stretching, mask off, I took a better look at the bleak flat horizon, nothing seen save a man stood peeing in the sand.
Gloves off, cooking kit out, I started on the hexamine tabs, metal tin washed out, the water in. I enjoyed my first brew in peace, few stirring, and with a second tin of water boiled I nudged Swifty, now a few men up and peeing in a less than stealthy manner. They would not be doing that if we were in contact with the gunmen.
With the visibility now good I blew the whistle, and ten minutes later the Americans raised their flag and blew the trumpet, the reveille adding a quality to the place. Not to be outdone, a dozen French soldiers walked to the flag pole, no less than three trumpets blowing out their own reveille, making me smile.
‘Ours is better,’ Henri noted.
Rizzo asked, ‘Do we have anyone that can play a bugle thing?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Ten minutes later a shout came: enemy patrol coming in from the west, ten of them. I lifted my binoculars as heads turned that way, soon seeing a line of camels plodding slowly along.
‘What we got?’ Swifty asked.
‘Camels.’
‘Camels? Well it is Camel Toe Base.’
It took more than half an hour for the line of camels to reach us, old and young, and they walked half the length of the runway whilst eyeing us warily, suddenly turning and heading for the medics - and the water. As the men looked on, Morten pumped water into bowls and metal pots and placed them out before backing up.
The camels plodded in, soon widening legs, heads down and slurping the water with huge tongues. Rizzo suggested shooting one to eat, but I said no, we had enough rations. Morten pumped more water, the lady nurse feeding bread to a young camel, the two American reporters snapping away, Max snapping away at the odd sight.
With the camels plodding off north, a large pile of fresh camel dung left behind, the base returned to normality. I had the bulldozers start on a trench that went from the north side of the drain towards the medics directly, many men seen working up a sweat filling sandbags.
By 2pm the southeast trench reminded me of an old desert war movie, perhaps an old black and white movie about Tobruk. Munitions were now stacked up, RPG boxes, the AK47 boxes, ration boxes piled high, and the fire positions were just about ready.
A shout over the radio, and I clambered up the side of a trench and stood on the top, seeing a large dust cloud south of us. Through my binoculars I could see perhaps twenty jeeps. I transmitted, ‘Stand-to all teams, get down, no one walking about up top. Tell the medics to get in the drain with their kit.’
When I could no longer see anyone standing up top, our look-out now down, I patrolled along the trench, checking the Wolf recruits. At their position I peered out with my binoculars.
The jeep column halted 1,000 yards out, one jeep coming forwards. It halted 600yards out, a man soon stood on the bonnet with binocular
s.
I transmitted, ‘Nicholson, your shot.’ Heads lifted over the sandy walls of the trench for a better look.
A few seconds later the crack registered as the man flew backwards and off his jeep. I heard a cheer, and laughter. The jeep turned around in a hurry and sped off, a body left behind. It joined the other jeeps, something of a debate going on, it was hard to see, and in front of me the sand shimmered and created a haze.
Cracks sounded out overhead, a thud in the sand causing me to glance over my shoulder.
‘That’s fifty cal,’ came an American accent.
I transmitted, ‘Keep your heads down.’
The cracks sounded out for ten minutes, ineffectual firing, the two American reporters running down the trench to me bent-double.
‘What they doing?’ they keenly asked me.
‘The boys out there have had no training, they have no decent leadership, so we’re up against a bunch of ten year olds with weapons. Firing like that might cause us to keep our heads down, but it’s just a waste of ammo.’
‘Why don’t you open up on them?’
‘Because then they would know what we have, and how many men. I want them in close.’ I transmitted, ‘Trapper, your best man, one shot every minute. Show us what you can do.’
A crack sounded out as I peered at the column, a man seen falling. But that man got back up, arm held.
‘Trapper, you winged that man, you’re pants. Nicholson, kill that man.’
A few seconds later the shot registered, the man knocked off his feet. He would not be getting back up, the other gunmen now hiding behind jeeps.
A quiet crack, and I asked what the shot was.
Trapper said, ‘Guy with a sat phone, head shot, got the fella.’
The fifty cal rounds cracked overhead again, one or two thumping into the sand in front of us.
The whistling sound came, then the blast, but it was short. They adjusted tubes, now two blasts over the runway, near the French. Tubes adjusted again, the mortars hit just in front of the tents, next salvo destroying one of their own captured jeeps, men near me laughing.
Four additional mortars, and the tents were hit.
One of the journalists noted, ‘They ain’t the smartest fellas in these parts, are they.’
‘I’m doubting they have a field telescope,’ I told him. I transmitted, ‘British Echo snipers, hit the wheels of the jeeps. And don’t waste those fucking tungsten rounds!’
The cracks sounded out, but I could see little, not knowing if my lads were hitting the wheels or not. Or if they were using our expensive tungsten rounds.
After ten minutes, Nicholson transmitted, ‘That’s all the wheels, Boss.’
‘Standby.’ I peered through my binoculars as jeeps were manoeuvred away, but driving across sand with flat tyres was impossible. I eventually noticed a line of men walking off south.
‘RAF Regiment, two GPMGs trained on the men walking off, aim high, a long burst please.’
A good thirty seconds later the loud cackle sounded out, and as I observed through my binoculars I could see men falling. Others ran, some ran left and right, and perhaps ten made it to the distance as the firing eased.
I transmitted, ‘Rizzo, Slider, get our British jeeps over there, I want the fifty cal and mortar tubes, any rifles, phones and papers.’
‘Do we have to bury that lot?’ Rizzo complained.
‘No, take no risks out there. Get moving. All other teams, stand down, get back to whatever you were doing.’
The two journalists asked, ‘Can we walk out there?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s your life. Should be safe enough, but a wounded man might be hiding.’
They plodded off down the trench kicking up sand.
I called London and gave them an update. ‘Listen, do me a favour and create a recipient list, so that I don’t have to call ten people all the time. Send my report to the French, Colonel Mathews in the E Ring, and Admiral Jacobs on his ship, GCHQ and the CIA, and to GL4 – and the French base in Mauritania.’
Along the Trench I found Trapper sat sipping water, his shirt and trousers beige, his boots beige. He said, ‘Three jeeps, then twelve, so what’s next?’
‘More than twelve,’ I told him.
‘Will those fellas walking ... will they make it?’
‘If they do they deserve a sit down with a cold beer; it’s twenty-two miles to the first village.’
‘I didn’t see any backpacks on them, so they’ll be thirsty,’ he noted. ‘They seem a bit ... disorganised.’
‘They are, the world over, and our Press gives them too much credit; we come across idiots like this all the time. Easy for them to plant a bomb, shoot a policeman, but up against trained soldiers – they’re shite.’
‘Could drive after them...’
‘No, I want them to report this – after a cold drink and a rest of some very sore feet.’
I checked with Morten - no one had been hit, and I placed our lookout back up on his pedestal. My lads drove the Russian fifty cal over, no ammo for it, and two mortar tubes – Russian mortar tubes, again no ammo. A stockpile of old AK47s and webbing was started in the drain. We had two sat phones and some paperwork, so I called it in to Tinker.
As I sat with my team at 3pm, Tinker called back. ‘The phones are linked, but so far it’s just local calls, and one linked to Lagos.’
‘I’m very interested in that Lagos number.’
‘We’ve looked, and there’s no data for it, so it’s new, or the user is careful.’
‘That’s a worry. Watch that phone for when it’s used.’
Phone down, Swifty said, ‘What’s a worry?’
‘One of the idiots who drove up to us had sat phone contact with someone in Lagos, someone being very damn careful.’
‘The paymaster?’ Mitch asked, sat cleaning his rifle.
‘One of the paymasters, yes, or a middle man.’
Mitch took in the horizon south and noted, ‘He’s out of pocket to the tune of fifteen jeeps, some men, some rifles, one fifty cal and two mortar tubes. So it’s adding up.’
Swifty pointed south. ‘Those jeeps are blocking our view a bit.’
‘Not close enough to be a worry,’ I responded.
With a modest breeze blowing south over our shoulders we all got some rest in the heat, up and about at 5pm when it was cooler, our lookout not reporting any movement. The trenches were finished, but we kept filling the sandbags and placing them strategically, and I had a sandbag wall built from the new trench towards the medics’ hole in the ground.
Men now had some free time on their hands and so they sat about, some playing cards around small camp fires, others caught up on sleep, a few French lads helping with the baking of bread. I told the French Echo captain to call the base in Mauritania and to have margarine and jam brought out on the next schedule supply run, milk in containers - and many eggs.
‘Ah, we make cake, no,’ he approved.
The night passed without incident, and I woke as the grey light seeped into my mask. After a brew, I patrolled the line, entering the ditch near the medics, a glance at the French position, soon walking through the tunnel as men slept, out and left to the southeast, and down to the Wolves, several found to be on stag.
‘All quiet, sir,’ a young American recruit told me.
‘They won’t try and sneak up on this place, more likely rockets and mortars. How you holding up?’
‘Fine, sir, it feels like home.’
‘You were raised in a hole in the sand?’
He laughed. ‘No, sir, a place outside Boston. But it’s as Sergeant Crab said; home is where your buddies are.’
‘True, very true. If you think like that you’ll make a good special forces soldier.’
I spoke with a few others, plus an NCO, and they all seemed to be in high spirits; there was nothing to concern me so far. But an hour later my phone trilled, and it was enough to concern me; radio contact south mentioned an aircraft.
&n
bsp; I stood on the runway and transmitted, ‘All teams get ready, we have mention of an aircraft, and aircraft can drop bombs. Keep an eye on the sky, and listen out.’
I stepped to my snipers as they sat lazily in their holes next to the runway. ‘If a plane comes in low, shoot the damn thing down.’
I walked briskly west along the sandy runway to the RAF Regiment, and to Haines. ‘Get your GPMGs ready to hit a plane if it comes in low.’
‘This plane,’ Haines began. ‘Does it have some RPG heads in the back?’
‘Could well do, yes.’
Walking back, I transmitted, ‘Listen up. I want all spare men with shovels throwing the light coloured sand over the darker sand we dug up, to hide our positions from the air. Try and move stores into the drain, British jeeps into the drain, bulldozers to the drain, cover things over with ponchos, let’s try and look like we’re a small force. Get to it!’
An hour later, as I stood in the southeast trench, the alert was given, aircraft engines heard.
I transmitted, ‘Get to cover, everyone get to cover, and hide yourselves where you can. Nicholson, get ready, RAF Regiment, get ready.’
The two journalists ran up. ‘What we expecting?’
‘Could just be that they want to see how we’re positioned, or it could be a cargo plane with something nasty to drop.’
‘Drop things ... from a cargo plane?’
‘Why not? We do that all the time.’
The drone registered, the plane eventually spotted south of us, and it was a twin engine high-wing transport, smaller than an AN12. Seeing the distinctive tail fins, I knew it was an Antonov An36 or An38. And it was below 1,000ft.
I transmitted, ‘Nicholson, Tomo, Swan, one tungsten round each, five seconds apart, bonuses available for the man that hits the engine. Fire when ready.’
The Antonov came on, and if anything it was getting lower. A blast sounded out as I peered up with my binoculars, a second blast, no fire seen yet, finally a third blast, a burst of smoke, a burst of flame, and the plane was in trouble. I knew that, and the pilots knew that, which was why they corkscrewed down.
