by Geoff Wolak
The next rocket slammed into the runway, a worry; we’d have some repairs to make.
‘It’s Nicholson, they’re running away.’
I transmitted, ‘Everyone back in the drain! Move it!’ I led them in bent-double, heads down, Sergeant Crab waiting.
‘How’s it looking?’ he asked, his recruits listening in.
‘The column to the south were hit and have fucked off, it’s just the rockets now.’
We waited in the dimly-lit drain as the onslaught came, and we waited some more, the blast echoing around the drain every twenty-four seconds, but then the pattern altered, three rockets landing at a time in sequence.
‘Those are short range rockets, five miles away or less,’ I told my team.
Mitch noted, ‘Someone is running up a bill.’
‘Someone ... has the money,’ I reminded him.
It finally grew dark, and the barrage ended.
‘Can’t they see to fire in the dark?’ Swifty complained.
I stood. ‘Might be a ground attack, so let’s get the jeeps and the weapons before they arrive. British Echo, French Echo, on me! Someone drive the two jeeps up and out.’
I led them south down the drain, up the bank and south across the sand, still some light left with which to scan the horizon. On the track I picked up the pace, the jeeps following on behind us, and we passed the grave site. Onwards we plodded, the night coming on, jeeps burning ahead of us.
Nearing the jeeps I sent French Echo left and around, and we all moved in slowly, double-tapping bodies in the flickering light given off from the burning jeeps. Jeeps being searched, bodies dragged out, I shouted at the lads to quickly load the mortar tubes and mortar boxes, and we stacked the two “B” Squadron jeeps high.
Several of these pickups were tested and found to be working, rifles soon being stacked up in the back, webbing and mortar boxes, RPGs and boxes of heads, and I was soon sending them back.
Phones collected off the dead, I finally shouted for the remaining jeeps to be set alight, and fast, everyone else to fall back as I scanned the horizon south. With eight jeeps set alight we ran off north, soon walking back to the drain as the dark desert was brightly illuminated behind us.
I strode across the runway and found the 1st Battalion Captain. ‘Get the mortar tubes off the jeeps, get the boxes of ammo, set them up somewhere, aiming at the burning jeeps, zero each tube and then leave them set-up, please. Then move the pickups north.’
Orders were shouted as I transmitted, ‘Wilco to all teams, get on the wire, get ready for company.’ Down in the drain I shouted for men to get fire positions, the drain soon empty.
Patrolling the southeast trench, I spoke with many men, all eyes keenly peering out, and I reassured the Wolves, at least I told them I had faith in them.
Half an hour passed, the trench now quiet, men studying the horizon intensely and listening. I dispatched a few men to get tins of corned beef, and everyone got a tin as we waited.
Up on the runway, I walked back to Echo’s original position, Slider’s troop here with Sasha’s team.
Casper asked, ‘Close up fight now?’
‘I think so, maybe at dawn, but it would make sense to come in the dark.’
‘These boys are crap, dark or light,’ he scoffed.
‘They only need to be lucky with a rocket and we’re hurting,’ I reminded him.
‘Nicholson for Wilco, there’s movement at the burning jeeps.’
Sasha cursed. ‘Those fucking idiots are using the track to walk, not across country!’
‘1st Battalion, fire eight mortars!’ I transmitted, and thirty seconds later four tubes popped out rounds. We witnessed the flashes in quick succession, distant men seen silhouetted – all of whom must have got some hot shrapnel, the second salvo highlighting men as well.
In Russian I said, ‘Go out there, get close, have a look for me.’ Sasha led his team off at the double. I transmitted, in English, ‘Wilco to all teams, we have a patrol moving south to the jeeps, do not fire unless I say so. I repeat, do not fire.’
I stood on the dark runway with Slider and a few others, and after ten minutes we heard the hollow gunfire reports, rapid firing, and that firing continued for ten minutes. Someone was expending a great deal of ammo, and I figured I knew who. I also knew that Casper was a wound toy that needed releasing now and again, and I reluctantly admitted to myself that he would always be a concern for me.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s Sasha, we have two wounded,’ came a man out of breath.
‘I’ll send the jeeps.’ I transmitted, ‘Medics, get our two jeeps and drive south down the track, lights on, get our wounded!’
‘Should we go?’ Slider asked.
‘By time we get there the jeeps would be ahead of us.’
The jeeps’ lights came on, and they sped down the runway a hundred yards before turning off, soon speeding down the track. We could just make out men being loaded, the jeeps coming back up to us in a hurry. I jogged along to the medics’ bunker, getting there as the jeeps halted, torches turned on.
One of the Russian-speaking Intel men had a through-and-through, not serious, just damn painful, a second Intel man had a scrape, again not serious, but it was bleeding badly, the two men led down the steps.
I followed them. ‘Mister Morten, I need you to tell me if we need a plane fast, or tomorrow.’
‘Neither wound is pumping, just be painful for them. I’ll dope them up and keep them here, but the longer they stay the greater the chance of infection.’
I clambered up and out, hearing Russian, and I closed in on the dark outlines of the four men left. ‘What happened?’ I asked them in Russian, trying not to be annoyed.
Casper began, ‘We hit the men near the jeeps, killed ten, moved past, found twenty more and killed them. They turned and ran, but a wounded man opened up, a long burst, hit our two men.’
‘How many ran off?’
‘Say twenty or more,’ Sasha told me.
I transmitted, ‘Mister Haines, target the area beyond the jeeps, fire short bursts longer and longer for a minute.’
The burst of fire registered with us, and it kept going, tracer streaking out into the dark night as we observed.
Calling London, I had them look for a plane, a small one, a ride to a suitable hospital, and most of those suitable hospitals were all north of the Mediterranean Sea. They would get back to me.
Back with Slider, the outgoing fire having ceased, they asked after the action and the wounded.
‘Best keep our distance,’ Slider finally suggested.
‘Casper likes to get up close, a bit of a fault with him. But we dealt them a blow, and they’ll report the close-up action here.’
‘What comes next?’ Rizzo asked.
‘A temper tantrum, as always. Get below.’ I transmitted, ‘All teams get to cover, a few men left on the wire only, close to cover, prepare for more rockets.’
I walked back along the edge of the runway, the runway black and the sand a lighter colour, reaching the drain and ducking in just as three rockets slammed into the runway above our heads, the men’s faces lit by the flicking orange flames of several fires. Since there was a steady breeze through the drain, smoke accumulating from the fires was not an issue, the ceiling eight feet up.
‘Their aim is not bad,’ Swifty noted.
The next three rockets landed northeast, and the positions kept varying.
‘They’re adjusting their aim after every salvo, hoping to hit a wide area,’ I noted as I took out a tin of corned beef. ‘Someone up there knows what he’s doing.’
At dawn the men were exhausted, the rockets having hit us intermittently all night, the barrage finally easing just as the grey dawn took hold.
I stood on the runway and checked the horizon as the grey haze slowly gave way to a brown vista under a seemingly grey sky, no hint of blue yet. There was no movement on the far horizon, not so much as a lost camel.
My phone’s trill disturbed
the desert peace. ‘Wilco.’
‘Duty Officer. We hired a plane, ex-SAS pilot, be with you shortly for the wounded men, they’ll be flown to Niamey in Niger, treated – it’s a good hospital with western doctors, then back up here on a regular flight.’
‘They have my frequency?’
‘Someone did mention that, so the answer is – yes I think so.’
‘OK, I’ll let you know if they get here.’ Phone away, I scanned the horizon again, and fifteen minutes later I heard the drone of a small twin prop aircraft. I transmitted that it was friendly – and for now one to shoot at it.
The plane flew over at about a thousand feet - a twin-prop Cheyenne by the look of it, banked hard left and had a good look at us, circled around, flaps down, and landed smoothly.
The RAF medics walked out with our wounded, the men’s kit left behind, the two men simply dressed in t-shirts, one with his arm in a sling.
I drew level with the wing, pointed a finger at the pilot and then at my ear.
‘You hear me?’ came through loud and clear.
‘Yeah, good signal. You available for casevac?’ I asked.
‘If the money is right, and no one is shooting at us – it’s a hired plane.’
‘Where you based?’
‘Niger, not far. We do mine transfers, did some hostage swaps.’
‘Get London to tell me your phone number.’
‘OK, will do.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Pete Bestillio, known as Pete Best, was a Sergeant in “D” Squadron for four years. You Wilco?’
‘I am, I’m afraid.’
Our wounded men were now aboard, door closed, and the pilot wasted no time after waving goodbye to me, powering down the runway like a sports car, nose up ten feet and flying parallel to the runway, wheels up, a hard blank left, and he flew low level and high speed for a mile before climbing.
I went and sat with my team in the drain, some food to cook; I was starving. We had leftover bread, so it was dipped in and wolfed down.
Sat with our backs to the walls, sand piled up and quite comfy, Swifty asked, ‘What’d you reckon?’
‘After the rockets, they must be hoping we have wounded, or we’re downbeat. Fuck knows what they can throw at us next, because the long range stuff is not accurate, and they know that their men can’t get close.’
‘Maybe they’ll dig a trench all the way here,’ he flippantly suggested. ‘Like Flanders.’
‘Actually ... a Flanders style stand-off is exactly what we want here.’
After my brew, taken at a leisurely pace, I walked down the tunnel, telling men to sleep if they wanted to. In the southeast trench I found a few men on stag, faces looking unshaven and tired.
I stopped next to a Greenie. ‘You holding up?’
‘Well, sir, my old man was in Vietnam when he was just eighteen, and he told me tales of the incoming, so now when I go back I can tell him some tales of the incoming. But I’m thirty two, fourteen years in, and a volunteer, so I guess it’s different.’
‘Did he suffer, afterwards?’
‘Hell no, he did three months, got a minor wound and was shipped back to a desk job. But I met some old vets, and they suffered, yeah.’
‘They suffered because they didn’t want to be there. I’m hoping you want to be here.’
‘Not complaining so far, sir, just want a stand-up fight.’
‘Every soldier wants a stand-up fight, but we don’t always get it. These are sneaky terrorists, not soldiers.’
I moved along to the Wolves, finding three on stag, an NCO with them. ‘Get any sleep?’
‘Snatched an hour here and there, sir,’ a tired recruit told me.
‘If it’s quiet today snatch some more, when it’s hot. Keep eating and drinking, that helps. Heat saps your energy, but also takes away your appetite. Need to force it down.’
‘I’m learning stuff like that, sir, and Sergeant Crab – he has lots of handy tips, stories of past missions.’
‘That’s how we learn; we see what others did before us.’
I stood tall on the top of the trench, staring out southeast at the bleak vista, a glance at the awkwardly parked Antonov, the expensive plane now just scrap metal.
An hour later we all heard the drone of an aircraft, men rushing around, and I warned everyone to get to cover, my snipers to get ready, Casper to get ready, the RAF Regiment to man the GPMGs ready – if their lads were feeling OK.
It was a twin prop engine, a civvy aircraft, and it was up at 3,000ft and taking no chances. Up there, some guy with binoculars was peering down, but he would have very little to see from that height.
The plane departed after circling twice, it flew off southeast, and life returned to normal. At midday I blew my whistle, and tired, dusty, unshaven men all got some much-needed sleep.
I waited till 4pm, getting two hours kip myself, but the horizon was clear so I held off waking them yet.
My phone trilled as I chatted to the medics. ‘Wilco.’
‘It’s Tinker. They’re being chatty on the radio again, and you can expect some APC heading your way.’
‘Ah, well that might cause us to pause and think, and to worry some. Anything else?’
‘Talk of a sizeable force.’
‘OK, keep me posted.’ Phone away, I blew the whistle, and transmitted, ‘All teams, get yourselves awake, get some food and water, a cuppa, and get ready, we’ll have company soon, armoured personnel carriers. British and French Echo, break out the RPGs.’
Morten asked, ‘Will you stop an APC with one of those RPG things?’
‘These are anti-armour heads, so yes – most of the time, and the wheels can be hit, and after a wheel goes the APC can’t be driven, so the men just sit inside and starve to death as we wait them out.’
I walked east to where 1st Battalion manned the four mortar tubes, the captain awake with a few men. ‘We have APC coming, but ... how about you zero a tube on the track, and maybe we’ll get lucky and hit an APC.’
‘Hit an APC, with a mortar? You are crazy.’
‘Nothing to lose by trying,’ I told him. ‘And they’ll stick to the narrow track. Do as I ask.’
‘Captain Crazy Fuck,’ he told me, shaking his head.
In the east trench I found Moran handing out RPG launchers, men lugging boxes of heads. ‘I want the French to have some on the far side of the drain, British lads with some this side, aiming up.’
Moran peered up at the runway. ‘You think they’ll drive down the fucking runway?’
‘If they don’t they’ll land in a ditch.’
‘Well ... yeah.’
I transmitted, ‘All those with an Elephant Gun, aim at the tyres when I say. Mister Haines, GPMG will shred a tyre as well, but wait the signal. If one gets close to you ... hit the tyres.’
Trapper closed in. ‘Will those APC have turret guns?’
‘If they don’t ... then it’s a waste of time driving them here.’
‘So they’ll fire on the move.’
‘Russian APC turret guns only have a down angle of ten degrees...’
He glanced over his shoulder at the runway. ‘So ... if they were on the runway they couldn’t hit men down below in the trench. Someone over there has had as little sleep as us lot. Ain’t thinking straight.’
‘Thank god for that,’ I told him.
We lost the light slowly, men pensive and ready, eyes strained on the horizon, RPGs ready at the drain entrances, worried looks exchanged as the minutes ticked off the clock. Just as it got hard to see the previously damaged jeeps the rockets came, men ducking for cover, and I shouted men into the drains.
But I remained in my fire position, observing the south, and listening, my head turning like an owl. A blast behind me, and the sand next to was hit by shrapnel. I glanced over my shoulder, cursing.
The rockets kept coming, the runway hit many times, and I made a mental note to use the concrete in the morning, or re-supply could be an is
sue.
‘Haines for Wilco.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘We can hear something, maybe those APCs.’
‘Try and figure when they reach the burnt out jeeps.’
‘I think they just did, we heard a crash.’
I forced away my smile, and shook my head. ‘1st Battalion, fire four mortars!’
I waited a minute, finally hearing four pops, some six seconds before the flashes, and those flashes gave my retina an x-ray view of three APC, one on the track and coming on, the others further back.
‘1st Battalion, hit the track as planned, three rounds.’
A pop, a few seconds and another pop, and the flash illustrated an APC from behind, the second flash illustrated it from the side, the final round hitting the roof of the APC, orange flames bursting out of the stricken APC from several areas.
I heard a cheer from across the runway as the APC burnt fiercely, as the poor men inside burnt fiercely. But in that orange light I could see the other two APC cutting across the sand, and coming right for us.
‘Get the RPGs ready,’ I transmitted. ‘Everyone get ready, here they come. Don’t shoot till I say.’
The sand around me spat out as I slipped lower, 7.62mm rounds slamming into the top of the trench or cracking overhead. I kept my head down in the dark, thirty seconds till the distinctive growl gave away the progress of the APC. I moved down into the dark trench with the others, looking at the stars just above the horizon and hoping to glimpse the APC.
The growl pegged the APCs moving left to right as I stared west.
‘They’re on the runway,’ Moran whispered.
‘What you whispering for?’ I whispered back, unseen men laughing. In a loud voice, I said, ‘Moran, Swifty, RPGs aimed up. Everyone else get back!’
I moved down the trench, a few men behind me, and I was not sure who they were in the dark as the menacing growl grew, and soon I glimpsed movement. ‘Get ready!’
The APCs had stopped firing, and were now looking for signs of life here, but they must have been puzzled by what they saw, and the lack of incoming fire.
