by Geoff Wolak
The main gate at Brize Norton was well guarded, signs for civilians on where to go, many areas taped off, many roads now blocked. We pulled up near the main para school hangar and formed up, the French forming a better block than my lot, and we ambled around.
Inside the hangar I noticed a podium, numerous white tents around the sides, easels set up with maps and photographs, but no one was around yet.
Beyond the hangar we found metal railings reminiscent of the London Marathon, the smell of hotdogs and onions hitting us, and we walked past a large marquee and to the aircraft displays, three Lynx, three Westland Commandos, two Chinook, two Hercules, and three F18s – making me puzzle where they came from. There were also two F15s at the end, and behind them sat many Hercules, two Tristar.
Opposite them sat tanks, jeeps, and sandbag positions with GMPGs, many soldiers and airmen wandering around, many civilians, some kids. We wandered along looking at the aircraft, several of my lot breaking off to buy hotdogs, and at the F18s we stopped, bombs and rockets laid out symmetrically below the aircraft.
I called over the crewman. ‘Were you in Liberia?’
‘Hell no, we flew up from Italy, a training wing. Which Regiment are you?’
‘SAS.’
‘Ah, you were there, we read about it.’
‘That a 2,000lb bomb?’ Swifty asked.
‘Yep.’
‘We saw them hit the runway from three hundred yards out.’
‘Close, fellas, damn close.’
‘They made a nice mess of the runway,’ Swifty added. ‘Where can I buy one?’
The crewman laughed. ‘Heavy to carry home. And these are not live.’
Wandering on we found 2 Squadron lads in combats, not No.1 dress, and they had a stand, a large tent. We had a nose inside. Next door we found Morten and his medics in a tent, all greeted.
2 Para had a display next to a tent, sandbags and GPMGs, a parachute hung up and in danger of flying off and pulling the tent moorings with it.
I greeted a captain. ‘You hoping to recruit a few young lads?’
‘It’s part recruitment, part for the families. Most of the lads who were there ... they invited family along. Fly-by at 2pm, weather should hold.’
The Marines had a tent, the Welsh Guards, the Gurkhas, jeeps with GPMGs fitted, and in the next huge marquee sat a huge screen showing the film footage from Liberia, kids sat looking up at it – future soldiers.
Liban closed in, munching on a hotdog.
‘Fine French cuisine,’ I quipped.
‘It’s good, no.’
I gave Swifty some money, to get us some.
Liban said, his mouth full, ‘My government, they are jealous and mad, this film your people made. They wish that we dropped like this.’
‘Next year’s new young recruits get to see it.’
‘Of course, yes, so they are mad as hell.’
I laughed. ‘And what happened to Elf Oil after?’
‘Many top people gone, some arrested.’ He shrugged, mustard on his cheeks. ‘We hate that fucking company anyhow.’
‘We got the Nigerian behind it. He had a very expensive helicopter sat on the runway, so we shot it up.’
‘Ah, bad sports, to shoot his nice helicopter.’
‘Our Lynx helicopters destroyed two AN12 transports.’
‘Very expensive, no. Someone will be mad at you.’
Swifty returned, handing me a hotdog with onions, and we wandered along having lost most of Echo. At the last tent I found many of the senior officers, champagne on ice, a guard at the door. This tent would be for the local dignitaries.
The station commander walked past. ‘Ah, Wilco, my lad,’ he let out as I saluted. ‘Good show this.’
‘Looks impressive, sir. And the hotdogs are good.’
‘I just met that lady off the TV, Joanna Lumley.’
‘What she doing here?’ I puzzled.
‘Her father was an officer in the Gurkhas, she was out there as a kid.’
‘What was she in?’ Swifty puzzled.
‘The Avengers,’ I told him.
‘Ah, yes,’ Swifty realised. ‘Tasty bird.’
‘Very,’ the Group Captain agreed. ‘So keep your men away from her, eh,’ he said as he rushed off to attend whatever he was organising.
I greeted many familiar faces, the place starting to fill up, the band practising, senior officers arriving, Colonel Dean greeted and chatted to for ten minutes with the new RSM, no SAS berets worn. I was then informed by an RAF sergeant that there was tent for Echo in the hangar, and that we were supposed to be there at 1pm. I sent Swifty off to tell everyone, and at least there was no alcohol on sale.
At midday the various units started to form up, the band again playing, now a thick crowd of families behind the barriers, a few of my lads heading for our tent. I stood with Moran and the Major at the hangar entrance, the Paras forming up, a loud warrant officer or two barking orders, TV cameras rolling.
Other units marched in and took position, ten different blocks, cars pulling up with flags on, senior officers stepping down. The Prime Minister’s plane touched down, the signal for the soldiers, airmen and navy ratings to march off away from the hangar and around in a large circle. The senior officers greeted me, many taking position afterwards on the podium, the RAF band playing loudly.
I led my remaining few inside, and to the tent, and we stood at the front. Regular SAS were next door, 2 Squadron, Marines, men from each unit deployed, plus the various RAF teams. The Prime Minister, Defence Minister, and the Joint Chiefs walked in from a side door and to the podium as the music echoed around the huge hangar.
The sounds of boots hitting the concrete echoed, getting closer, loud orders being barked, and it reminded me of basic training. Lt Col Marsh appeared at the head of his men, marching in and halting as a block, 1 Para to the side, and various other units stomped to a halt in pre-arranged positions, the band halting at the entrance and still playing.
With the last block of men in place the music stopped, and the Prime Minister took to the microphone, a ten minute speech about how proud the nation was of its fine young men. The Lynx pilots were called up, letters of commendation in glass frames handed over, the press cameras flashing. Lt Col Marsh also received a framed letter.
With the TV cameras rolling, the PM stepped down and chatted to Lt Col Marsh and his senior staff, moving on to enlisted men, and he worked his way around each block, forty minutes used up.
With the band starting up again, blocks turned around and marched out, the PM and his team starting on the tents and the various groups, the TV crew sent out. Photos were inspected, maps peered at, and he took twenty minutes to reach us, the band playing some distance away now.
‘Your men all well?’ he asked as we shook.
‘Just one serious injury this time, sir, man lost an arm.’
‘And they all got a holiday I heard.’
‘Yes, sir, some money and a break after a hard few weeks.’
‘A well-earned break, yes, after sleeping in the jungle.’
He moved on to Major Liban, a few of the senior officers stopping to ask me questions in hushed tones. With the PM gone we moved back outside, the fly-past starting with Hercules, seemingly thousands of kids here now, a proud uniformed father stood with each family unit, the crowds thick, the air thick with the smell of onions, with patriotism, and the odour of aviation fuel.
Swifty got another hot dog as we wandered, and we bumped into Max.
‘What you doing here?’ I asked. ‘You got the story already.’
‘Extra photos for my book.’
‘Book?’
‘I’ve put together a book, a large A4 thing with lots of photos, and a timeline of the campaign. My paper will sell it, some proceeds to the Army Benevolent Fund.’
‘Send us a copy,’ I told him. ‘Are we in it?’
‘Yes, but I’ve been careful. And Clifford his publishing his book about you.’
‘He is?’
I worried.
‘The one about Bosnia.’
‘Tell him to send me a copy, or I’ll put a bullet in him.’
‘He’s going to send it to you, yes, he wants some comments from you.’
I exchanged a look with Swifty. ‘I’ll read it first.’
The Welsh Guards grabbed me, all keen for a photo, so I put my facemask on as they snapped me.
Swifty and I wandered from tent to tent, people we knew chatted to, and at 4pm I rounded up most of the guys, some not found, and headed back. The French returned at 5pm in the buses - some of ours with them and somehow drunk, the plane returning for the French, insults exchanged as they boarded.
At 7pm I got a call, from the Pentagon E-Ring. ‘Captain Wilco, Colonel Mathews.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’ve having an odd day, a very fucking odd day, and since it all concerns Panama I thought I’d call you. I’m not aware of everything that happened in Panama, or what happens down there, but I know enough.
‘Rumour has it ... that the CIA taped the FBI and DEA planning the mass murder of US citizens, and the TV news here is running nothing other than that, the President more than just furious.
‘What has been discovered in the past few hours is that the DEA hid the detail of the raid from Washington, so some folks will be off to jail after a lengthy hearing and some great embarrassment for all concerned. DEA Station Chief will be recalled Stateside – when he gets out of hospital
‘Now, my good buddies in the CIA are certain ... that they never taped the FBI and DEA meeting, and that they never tipped anyone off. The assault team leader, however, said he got the truth from a Canadian officer in the E-Ring, which is odd seeing as the only Canadian here is a lady in admin.
‘Apparently, some colonel tipped off Tomsk to save American lives, and there are three colonels here, myself and two others, and the others work in logistics and research. So I’ve had a few odd calls today ... and some thank you notes, a great puzzle to me. I’ve also been summoned by my boss. So ... if there’s something you know, I’d appreciate a little help.’
‘Colonel, sir, I am but a lowly captain, I keep telling you that.’
‘You’re also full of shit, and rumoured to be the world’s most valuable intel asset.’
‘Since you never tipped anyone off, sir, and there’s no evidence of that, you have nothing to worry about.’
‘When I first spoke to you on the phone I thought you sounded a little Canadian. Easy mistake to make.’
‘Rest assured, Colonel, I would only ever have your best interests at heart ... and that the US media like stories with a certain flavouring added to them.’
‘So ... the finger of suspicion being pointed at me makes me ... the spice to this story?’
‘You may think that, sir, I could not possibly comment. Have a nice day.’ I cut the call, and wondered about calling David. I figured I would wait a while, giving him some deniability.
Clifford turned up at GL4 the next day, a copy of his manuscript handed over, complete with photos. ‘I was hoping for some quotes.’
‘I’ll read it first, then decide if I give you a quote, or shoot you.’
‘Well, legally, MOD can’t stop us publishing it.’
‘Well, legally, when I kill people there’s no evidence left behind,’ I told him as flicked through it.
‘I have the Serb kid lined up, he’s here in the UK.’
I stared at him for a moment. ‘Not sure how I feel about, it’s been a while, things have moved on. Let me read this and get back to you.’
‘How soon?’
‘Soon.’
I took the book home, telling people not to disturb me unless it was urgent. The lads were tasked with some keep fit, our PTIs back, followed by a work-up with the new rifles. Radar and radio kit was on its way, with instructors.
An hour into the book and my mind was back in that forest, and I was still not sure how I felt about it. I had made a few corrections in red pen, I even spotted a few typing mistakes, and I corrected some of the technical detail. Where Clifford had an insight into my thoughts I made adjustments.
Swifty got back at 5.30pm. ‘How’s it looking?’ he asked as he got a brew on.
‘It’s accurate, and fair, so there’s not a lot to be mad about. And it makes out that I suffered – which I did, and that they suffered, and that the enemy were the people pushing us into that wood.’
‘Seems about right; soldiers don’t make wars, politicians make wars.’
I was still reading at midnight, up at 5.30am and back at it, and I finished it by 2pm. The book made me look like a victim and not an aggressor, and it did not pin the Serb deaths on me, but their idiot officers. But the real story was about the young Serb lad, who never wanted to be a soldier, and who had a secret Muslim girlfriend, who he had married after escaping to London.
I called Clifford and agreed to give him some quotes, and to meet the lad in London.
The next day, after writing several pages of text, I journeyed up with MP Pete and we discussed Bosnia on the way, much of which he was not aware of. I had called David Finch, and his men had already pinched a copy of the draft and read it, and saw no security risks.
I met Clifford in the lobby of News International in Wapping, Pete close by, and he led us up to the offices, Max saying hello, the editor keen to chat for a while. I handed Clifford the pages, and he was delighted I had penned so much. In a side room we found the lad in question, a lady with a young baby, and an older man, perhaps in his fifties.
‘Marko, this is Wilco, the ghost.’ “The Ghost” was the name of the book, and what the Serbs had called me at the time.
I shook the lad’s hand. ‘Did I wound you?’
‘In the leg. At the time I was so scared I did not notice, but when I went to run I fell, and I saw the blood.’
I smiled and shook the lady’s hand, a look at the baby, and shook hands with the older man.
‘This is my father,’ the lad explained. ‘He left Bosnia recently, a home here now. No bullets and bombs here.’ We sat.
I told him, ‘This book ... it is more about you than me. You had the happy ending, I’m still fighting.’
‘I read about you in the papers all the time, and I don’t know how I feel about you. I don’t think I hate you, but I hated being in that wood, and seeing my friends all killed.’
If he was trying to make me feel bad, he was succeeding. ‘We were both caught up in a war that neither of us chose. But since Bosnia I have grown to kill without regret, and I like it, and I have no regrets about that.’
They appeared shocked.
‘In Bosnia I found Serbs raping and killing women, and I rescued some, and later they came to London, the lady I saved now with a baby.
‘In Africa, I kill the bad men with pleasure, and I save the good people, as many as I can. My fight ... is good against evil, and Bosnia took away my fear and gave me the ability to see clearly, and to kill without remorse, and that helps.
‘I’ve rescued a great many people, from many countries, and it’s great to see them home with their families. That makes what I do enjoyable, and special. I kill most every week, but I kill men with guns in their hands, men who rape and kill for fun.
‘Most people get up in the mornings and go to work for shit pay, some pick up a gun and take what they want. I kill those men, and I like what I do, because it’s just saving like the Muslim woman I rescued in those woods, and I met again later with her baby.’
They had listened patiently.
I added, ‘After Bosnia I had regrets, seeing the young men I shot, their idiot officers sending them in. Then I came across Serbs raping and killing, bodies thrown into shallow graves, and I stopped feeling sorry for them. I no longer have any regrets about those I shot, and Bosnia set me on the right track.’
I glanced at Clifford, and he opened the door, my surprise guests stepping in. Everyone stood. ‘This is the lady I saved.’
The lady in ques
tion stood smiling, toddler in her arms, husband at her side. The Muslim wife of Marko started jabbering away, soon a flood of tears, hugs exchanged, the old man hugging the husband, even Marko in tears, Clifford taking snaps.
I finally told them, ‘I used to worry about Bosnia, about what I did, the men I killed and wounded, but I have come to terms with it, and I’m thankful for the experience, and thankful that it took away my fear. I hope you lose the nightmares and ... maybe this family will help.’
I collected Pete outside, a nod at the editor, who was sneaking a glance at the tearful families, and I patted Clifford on the arm. ‘You have your quote, and you can print it without me shooting you.’
Outside, I breathed in the cold air, and pointed MP Pete towards Vauxhall. I called David and asked for an urgent meeting with him and the Director, making him worried, very worried.
In the Director’s posh office, a view of the shit-brown Thames, she poured me a tea. ‘Have you been busy messing about in Panama?’ she asked as she handed the cup to me.
‘I figured you’d want plausible deniability.’
‘That always helps. So what did you do?’
I gave her the story, her eyes wide, David sat listening.
‘And the money was paid over?’ she finally asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well ... glad that was all off the books, yes,’ she added. ‘US President is feeling the heat, but ... he’d also be feeling the heat with twenty dead DEA agents. I prefer your way, and that we maintain the chain of command – at least for the DEA.’ She shot me a look.
David began, ‘So how did the CIA get to know about it?’
‘They must have been bugging the DEA in Panama,’ I put in. ‘Only way they could know, and some mid-ranker used the information and deleted the tapes, the guy now three million better off and soon to retire. CIA must have watching DEA Panama after my last run in with the DEA.’
‘Something they denied,’ the Director noted. ‘Glad to know it’s not just us Brits that squabble like children.’
I smiled. ‘Ma’am, when us Brits stab someone in the back we apologise politely afterwards and have a nice cup of tea.’
‘Colonel Mathews is to face a Senate Hearing,’ David put in. And he waited on my reaction.
