by James Steel
Jason and Sean recognise the accent as classic British officer class, fiercely proper and correct, but with the whip-crack of command in it.
‘Myself, S’arnt Major Thwaites and my 2IC, your Training Officer, Major Douala, are all looking forward to our training as a unit. It will be robust and challenging and will commence tomorrow morning. Reveille is O five hundred.’
Fang squeezes the trigger, the gun bucks slightly and a wide area of the plywood target explodes.
He shouts an expletive in Chinese and looks round at Col who is grinning back at him.
‘Gleaming, eh? Right, put it on auto.’
He reaches over and clicks the selector lever down.
‘Right, give it a full mag now.’
Fang grins, tucks the butt into his shoulder and squeezes the trigger again. There is a steady roar as the gun blasts away and twenty-nine big, fat, red, twelve-gauge shotgun shells stream out of the ejection point in seconds.
Fang screams and sprays the target area in buckshot. The steel ball bearings make the plastic target bottles dance on the ground and completely shred the plywood screen behind them.
The mag clicks empty and he laughs and hands the Barrett AA-12 machine shotgun back to Col. ‘Awesome!’
‘Yer, I saw it demoed in the States and just thought, I’ve gotta have that.’ He handles the large matt-black rifle with love; it looks like a bulky M16 with a fat drum magazine under it. They are out on the firing range showing Fang and Rukuba around the base. ‘The Yanks developed it for use in Iraq for close quarter combat so it’ll come in handy when we’re in the jungle, you know – you can’t see the enemy in a bush but if you put a few rounds of this into it you’ll flush ’em out sharpish like. They’ve also got a mini-grenade round that’s quite a lotta fun as well. They’re not cheap though so we’ve only got one per section but it’ll work well with these.’ He picks up one of the three assault rifles lying on the table. ‘This will be the regiment’s standard infantry rifle. It’s basically just a Chinese version of an AK-74, so it’s dead robust and very easy to train the lads on it.’ He shrugs. ‘Not a very sophisticated rifle but it’ll do the job.’
He turns round and looks at Rukuba. ‘You wanna have a go?’
The politician holds up his hands in polite refusal. ‘Oh, no thank you, I am not a man of violence.’
‘OK, suit yerself.’
Alex steps in at this point. The unit is now at full complement and they have got a lot to see on the tour.
‘Right, let’s go and see the air wing, shall we?’
They turn and walk back down the valley to the flatter land where the helicopters and drones are based.
Alex is now colonel in charge of eleven hundred combat soldiers. Most are light infantry to be moved around rapidly in helicopters for airmobile strike warfare. But apart from these six rifle companies he also has platoons of specialists: heavy machine guns, mortars, antitank, recce, snipers, signallers, medics, a large electronic warfare team and several batteries of 105mm light guns.
The number of men he needed to recruit from the mercenary market was so large that he has ended up with soldiers from a total of fifteen different countries – British, South African, Angolan, American and Canadian troops are the largest groups but he also has Germans, Belgians, French, Dutch and Italians. The NATO deployment to Afghanistan means that nearly all of them have recent war fighting experience. The French and Swahili speakers have been split up so that there is at least one in each platoon, meaning they can communicate with most of the locals in Kivu if they need to. But at the end of the day Alex needs guys with military experience who are fit and can fire a rifle. Basic infantry vocabulary is a few hundred words – they can make it work. The selection days that they ran in different countries have weeded out the dross and now it is just down to good leadership and training. They can hear that going on all around the valley now: shouting and screaming as NCOs beast their platoons over assault courses.
They have settled the men in well, issuing them webbing, boots, packs, sleeping bags, flak jackets, camelbacks, hats and helmets. The green camouflage uniforms have got variously coloured epaulettes for the different rifle companies.
They have also done the grim stuff: issuing dog tags, thin grey metal rectangles just over an inch long on a chain. Name and number, blood group and religion are stamped on them. The only time they will come off the men now will be the end of the tour or if they are dead.
Equally daunting for the men was signing off their insurance arrangements. The grisly business of enumerating the money owed for the loss of fingers and toes, maiming, facial mutilation, blinding, paralysis – paraplegic and quadriplegic – and death. A thousand and one reasons not to do the job. Most of them didn’t even read it but just glanced at it and signed. If you thought about that stuff too much you wouldn’t do the job.
The group walks down onto the flightline and Arkady struts over to them in blue oil-streaked overalls, proud of the fleet of aircraft he has assembled. He has also recruited the pilots, loadmasters, mechanics and airgunners to fly and service them.
Fang and Rukuba have met him in Rwanda and stand and listen politely to his briefing, although Rukuba is keeping his distance from the detail, rather than boyishly hoovering it up like Fang.
‘So these are the troopships.’ Arkady points to five large dumpy-looking transport helicopters. ‘They are the Chinese-built Mi-171C, the version of the Russian Mi-17; we have leased all ten. I get three of these for price of one Blackhawk and Blackhawks only take thirteen men – these take twenty-five or thirty fully loaded infantry.’ He looks at them for acknowledgement of his acumen and they nod appreciatively.
‘Over there are Beyoncé and Shakira.’ He points to the two Mil Mi-24s. ‘They’re great performers,’ he says and grins broadly, showing a gold tooth at the side of his mouth.
The two big gunships look like evil dragons. They have a double bulge of armoured cockpits at the front with a lumpy chin turret for a twin-barrelled 23mm cannon. Short stubby wings and rocket pods add to the overall ugliness of the machines.
He finishes off with less enthusiasm by pointing past the two helicopters, ‘Those things are the drones.’ Like a lot of pilots he still doesn’t like the weird-looking pilotless reconnaissance aircraft being worked on by their Israeli support crews.
The day finishes off with tea in the HQ block; Alex has declared the base dry.
‘Overall, I’m very pleased with the way it is all coming together,’ Alex explains, standing in front of Fang and Rukuba as Col and Yamba watch; he’s getting worked up now, leaning forward.
‘You see, the problem we have here is how do we create a coherent unit from so many guys in such a short space of time? But it is possible. You see, if you look at other unorthodox units like Colonel Mike Hoare’s 5 Commando in the Congo in the sixties or Executive Outcomes in the nineties, they all had limited resources and no formal military structure to rely on and yet they created units that completely outperformed in tough conditions. So the real question is, how do we get the guys to love adversity?’
The guests wait to be enlightened.
‘Well, basically soldiers love a challenge and want to be heroes and with good leadership and training they can be. I mean, here we have nothing in terms of set military tradition or hierarchy; it’s all down to us to make it happen. We have to pull First Regiment together and make our own legend.’ He laughs. ‘That’s what we’re going to be – legends!’
Chapter Eighteen
A huge explosion comes from his right and Jason Hall ducks down with a terse, ‘Shit!’
Bullets start zipping through the bush overhead and leaves and branches shower down over them.
‘Where are they?’ Sergeant Hooper’s bellow comes from the other side of a clump of bamboo at the front of his section’s diamond formation and the men’s heads swivel around awkwardly as they crouch.
Sean spots the muzzle flashes on the hillside overlooking them. ‘One hundred m
etres, right of axis of advance! Muzzle flashes in treeline!’
‘In the trees there!’ a soldier shouts and now Matt can see them. The radio earpiece on his left ear crackles and Major Delacroix’s voice barks, ‘Hooper, you give fire support, I manoeuvre Three Platoon left flanking. Over.’
Matt repeats the order and Corporal Stein gets his sections into cover to give fire support. Apart from being deeply scary, Stein is actually trained to a higher standard than any of them so all the men jump to it when he is around.
Major Delacroix gives the command and Matt’s men open up. Looking down through the trees he sees Three Platoon break cover, dash across the stream in the valley bottom and assault uphill against the enemy position. Loud bangs of grenades and gunfire echo across the valley.
Col, Alex and Yamba stand on a knoll up the valley and observe the training with their binoculars. Jean-Baptiste has done a good job of manoeuvring his men but the exercise isn’t over yet.
This is Echo Company’s first big twenty-four-hour exercise. The hundred and twenty men were dropped off by five helicopters in a clearing on the bend of a river two valleys away last night. Since then they have been lugging their full load of equipment and blank ammunition up and down the steep forested slopes whilst being attacked by Bravo Company.
Yamba’s cold, hawk-like eyes flick up and down the valley assessing what is happening. He is a graduate from the South African Defence Force School of Infantry at Oudtshoorn and believes in doing things properly. Echo Company have had to practise their skills in bushcraft, night marches, river crossings and casevac, re-embarkation on the helicopters and then another assault into a hot LZ. And all of this at an altitude of seven thousand feet. The men are knackered.
They have got a way to go though. They must do a fighting retreat back down the valley before their final extraction by helicopter: the pilots and aircrew need the practice of working with the soldiers.
The exercise ends well; the men spill out of the back of the helicopters on the landing pads at Camp Purgatory in Rwanda, only miles from the border with Kivu. They are knackered but they know they have done a good job and there are big grins all round.
Alex comes over to congratulate Jean-Baptiste with a big smile on his face, ‘Excellent job, Major Delacroix, very well done.’ They shake hands.
The Frenchman is more than fulfilling Alex’s expectations: he’s a dynamic commander, furiously intense but with a quick smile, and his men love him.
Jean-Baptiste’s face is smeared in camouflage cream. He grins. ‘Yes, it was good, we got stuck a bit in the ambush in the first valley.’ He shrugs. ‘Our spacing was not good but we can work on it.’
The men get cleaned up and, having passed their big test, the next morning have their formal swearing-in ceremony on the parade square.
Alex knows that the outward symbols of military belonging are important to the men and so they get the full works. Echo Company parades in front of him and the rest of the command element.
Jean-Baptiste stands front centre and bellows, ‘Echo Company, all present and correct, awaiting your inspection, sir!’
Alex walks up and down the ranks of men, looking carefully at them, and rehearsing their names in his mind.
He makes a brief address in which he emphasises the importance of unit discipline. ‘Some mercenary units got themselves a reputation for poor discipline.’ They all know what he means – Congo had a dose of them when control in 6 Commando broke down in the late 1960s and troops ran amok attacking civilians. Given the nature of their task to bring law and order to an anarchic region, Alex is particularly sensitive about this.
‘But you will not let me down! First Regiment is a disciplined unit that respects civilians and its Rules of Engagement.’ He has been banging on about these Rules throughout their training. Invaders are never popular and he knows it would only take one incident of civilian collateral damage to ignite nationalist anger against foreign troops.
‘Having completed your training, you will now be formally inducted into the Regiment and be issued with one of these.’ He holds up a small laminated card. ‘This is the Ten Commandments of the First Regiment.’
It’s a trick he has borrowed from Roger’s Rangers, an unorthodox unit in the American War of Independence. It was reused by Mike Hoare in 5 Commando and now him. The list is an eclectic mix of rules for the troops, some practical and some ethical that sums up the tone of his command. Alex reads them out to the men. ‘The first commandment is Obey orders. Then, Attack hard and Defend hard. Next, Respect and defend civilians at all times.
‘The fifth commandment is, Keep your rifle cleaned, oiled and to hand at all times. Check your ammunition, magazine springs and lips. They are the basic tools of our job. Similarly, Do not overload the helicopters. We are an airmobile unit, without them we cannot function.
‘Next, Look after the men in your unit. Stay switched on – even in battle fatigue stay alert and notice what is going on around you. Shave every day. And finally, Conserve ammunition. Do not spray and pray.’
The parade ends with the men taking an oath of allegiance to the flag as a unit and then coming up one by one to salute Alex, shake his hand and be issued with their copy of the Ten Commandments.
Alex looks each man in the eye as they come up and then scans the ranks as they stand awaiting his orders at the end. His heart swells with pride as he looks at them, thinking of the glory that they can win.
Glistening drops of sweat hang off the woman’s nose and chin as she walks up the forest track. She doesn’t notice them and walks with a blank look, her consciousness sunk somewhere deep inside her, concentrating on putting one bare foot in front of the other and keeping going up the muddy trail under her heavy load.
She has a huge bundle of food, cooking equipment and plastic sheeting piled up in a wicker basket on her back so that it comes up above her head. Her hands hold a bark strap that runs from it around her forehead to keep the basket from toppling backwards.
Joseph walks behind her. He doesn’t have a pack, just his rifle balanced on his shoulder with one hand holding the muzzle. The path goes up and downhill winding through thickets of bamboo, sugar cane and elephant grass. His Wellingtons slide in the mud and on the way down one hill he slips and lands painfully on his coccyx.
The FDLR soldiers are walking through the bush en route to their new base in the Lubonga valley wearing their ragtag uniforms of green combats mixed with tee shirts and jeans. Joseph is at the back of the column standing guard on the nine women that they have pressed into service as bearers. He cuts himself a walking stick and uses it to balance as they cross a fast-flowing stream in a valley.
Heavy rain starts but they trudge on regardless. He can feel the cold water running out of his hair, down his cheeks and down the back of his neck. The mud begins to work its way up the instep of his boots and onto his trousers. He keeps his head down and soon all he can see and think about are the bare feet of the woman in front of him slapping along in the mud.
At five o’clock, Lieutenant Karuta calls a halt and they make camp whilst it is still light. The women are tied to a tree and the soldiers make rough shelters out of branches and sheeting. They are all exhausted and for once no one bothers raping the women. Joseph’s coccyx hurts too much to even think about it. In the morning they awake cold and stiff and after a breakfast of water and bananas they set off again.
Midmorning and a burst of gunfire up ahead wakes Joseph from his daze.
‘Get down! Take cover!’
The men scatter, plunging into the bushes at the sides of the trail.
They poke their heads back out, guns at the ready. ‘What’s up? What’s happening?’
From where he is at the back of the column he can’t see the head of it because ten feet in front of him the track curves round some bushes. Urgent whispers dart back and forth up the line.
‘Shut up! Keep quiet!’
They all stare intently at the bushes as if they are able to tell
them what is happening. He can hear a voice shouting from further up the hill but can’t make out the words. There’s a pause and then another voice shouts back. Silence follows and they all wait for five minutes.
Finally Corporal Habiyakare ambles back down the track.
‘OK, get up! Come on, let’s go!’
‘What happened?’
‘We ran into another FDLR platoon but Benois was on point and he wasn’t sure who they were so he fired. The lieutenant sorted it out though, no one was hurt. They’re going to the same rendezvous point as us. Come on!’
There are smiles of relief all round and they heave the packs back on the women and get going again.
They reach Utiti that evening and crash out in a hut by the dirt road.
The following morning four battered trucks stop at the roadside. The soldiers climb in and pass their bags up. There’s a lot of chatter and laughter, it’s exciting to feel that they are going somewhere different; life in the bush is boring.
Joseph hasn’t been on a truck for years and the speed and movement is fun, though as a junior soldier he gets the worst place at the back, where the fierce sun dries out the dirt road and the slipstream whips up the red dust from the wheels. The soldiers wrap their tee shirts round their heads but their hair, long and bushy after so long in the forest, gets coated in red dust like a group of clowns. The dust gets in Joseph’s mouth and mixes with saliva to form red mud on his teeth.
They flash through scruffy roadside villages of wooden huts. The inhabitants run at the sight of them.
In one village they slow down as they pass through the centre of it and some Congolese army soldiers come out and stare at them. The platoon stare back as they drive past. Sometimes they fight each other and sometimes they cooperate, it all depends on individual commanders and the ebb and flow of local politics. They don’t have an axe to grind with each other now and are obviously just passing through, so the FARDC troops just watch them go by.
