Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  Or maybe there'd be just one TEL which we couldn't get in to attack, in which case we'd do a stand-off attack with lots of firepower-but not at the expense of the patrol to take out only one objective. In a stand-off attack we wouldn't get "hands on" but would use 66s to try and destroy the target. Such an attack must be short and sharp, but whether or not to carry one out would be a decision that could only be made on the ground. It's only when you have seen the problem that you can make your appreciations and work out what you will do. We would always try a covert target attack if at all possible.

  The third option would be an air strike. Deciding between a stand-off attack and an air strike would be a fine balance, probably swayed by the numbers involved. Both, however, would advertise the fact that we were close by in the area. The compromise would be bearable if the numbers were high enough to warrant it, but if we were successful in cutting the cable, there would be no need for this at all.

  By now the place was stinking of sweat, farts, and cigarettes. There were bits of paper everywhere with pictures of Scuds and matchstick men and fire-support group movement diagrams. Planning is always exhaustive, but only because we want to work everything out to the finest detail. When we got to the TEL and the door was closed, where was the handle? How did you operate it? Which way did the door go, out or in? Was it a concertina door? Did the door hinge from the top?

  Would the door be padlocked as it is on many armored vehicles? What would we do then? People didn't know, so we studied pictures and tried to work it out. Detail, detail, detail. It's so important. You might be pushing a door when you should be pulling. Minor detail missed equals fuckup guaranteed.

  We moved on to thinking about the equipment required to execute our plans.

  You can destroy a power station with a shaped charge of 2 pounds of explosive in just the right place; you don't have to blow the whole installation into the sky. It can be done by a small specific-to-task charge, because you know the vulnerable point you're going for. With Scud we knew the vulnerable points, but not for sure how we were going to get at them. I was keen to take just charges of PE, each weighing about 2 pounds, rather than specific-to-task explosives, because we might not be able to use specifics any other way. Again, we wouldn't have the information until we got there on the ground.

  We'd need PE4 explosive, safety fuse, grip switches, nonelectric and electric dets, timers, and det cord. You don't put detonators straight into plastic explosive, which is how it's portrayed in films. You put det cord between the detonator and the explosives. We'd make up these charges in advance, and just before the attack place the dets and timers on to them.

  Vince and Bob disappeared to go and organize these items, and came back a quarter of an hour later.

  "That's all squared away," said Vince. "It's all under your bed."

  All the main points had now been covered.

  We would be on foot, carrying everything in, so we'd need a cache area, which would be our LUP (lying-up point). Ideally, the LUP would provide cover from fire and cover from view, because we'd be manning it all the time. It's very dangerous to leave equipment and go back to it-even though this sometimes has to be done-because it might be ambushed or booby-trapped if discovered. We'd work from a patrol base and move out from there to carry out our tasks. It might happen that we'd find a better site for our LUP during a patrol, in which case we'd move all the kit again under cover of darkness.

  We now worked out the E&E plan. We would be 185 miles from Saudi, but only 75 from neighboring countries. Some were part of the Coalition, so in theory would be perfect places to head for.

  "What are the borders like?" Vince asked Bert.

  "I'm not entirely sure. Might be like the border with Saudi, a tank berm and that's all. But they could be heavily defended. Whatever, if you cross a border, for heaven's sake make sure they don't think you're Israeli -it's not that far away."

  "Fair one, Bert," said Stan, nodding his head in Bob's direction and grinning. "But I'm not going across any border with that spick."

  Bob certainly looked the part, with tight black curly hair and a large nose.

  "Yeah, well, who'd want to go with Zorro there?" Bob pointed at Mark's big nose.

  Everything was going well. It's when people stop the slagging and start being nice to each other that you have to worry.

  "What's the ground like going up there?" Mark asked.

  "Much the same. Basically flat, but when you get up to the areas of Krabilah and the border there is some high ground. The further west, the higher the ground."

  "What's the score on the Euphrates?" Dinger said. "Is it swimmable?"

  "It's almost a half mile wide in places, with small islands. It'll be in fierce flood this time of the year. All around there is vegetation, and where there's vegetation, there's water, and where there's water there's people. So there'll always be people around the river. It's rather green and lush-Adam and Eve country, actually, if you remember your Bible."

  We looked at the options. If we were compromised, did we tab it all the way south or did we move northwest? We'd probably have a lot of drama getting across any border, but we'd have that going south as well.

  They'd guess we were going south anyway, and it was a hell of a long distance to run.

  Dinger piped up in his best W. C. Fields voice, "Go west, young man, go west."

  "Nah, fuck that," Chris said, "it's full of rag heads. If we're on the run, let's go somewhere nice. Let's go to Turkey. I went there for my holidays once. It was rather nice. If we get to Istanbul, there's a place called the Pudding Club, where all the international travelers meet and leave messages. We could leave a message for the search and rescue team and then just go on the piss while we wait for them to pick us up. Sounds good to me."

  "Bert, what sort of reception committee would we get elsewhere?" Legs asked. "Any info from downed pilots yet?"

  "I'll find out."

  "Unless we're told otherwise, Bert," I said, "we're not going south."

  You always keep together as a team for as long as you can, because it's better for morale and firepower, and your chances of escape are higher than as individuals. But if the patrol were split, the beauty of choosing north was that you could be the world's worst navigator and still find your way there. Due north and hit the river, hang a left, heading west. But even if we managed to cross the border we couldn't count ourselves as being on safe ground. There was no information to suggest otherwise.

  The one fixing we dreaded was getting captured. As far as I knew, the Iraqis were not signatories to either the Geneva or Hague Conventions.

  During the Iran/ Iraq War we'd all seen reports of atrocities they'd committed while carrying out interrogations. Their prisoners had been flogged, electrocuted, and partially dismembered. I was very concerned that if we were captured and just went into the "Big Four"-number, rank, name, date of birth-these people wouldn't be satisfied and would require more from us, as their gruesome track record had shown. I therefore decided that, contrary to military conventions and without telling my superiors, the patrol should prepare itself with a cover story. But what should it be?

  We were clearly an attacking force. We would be stuck up in northwest Iraq, carrying the world's supply of ammunition, explosive ordnance, food, and water. You wouldn't need the brains of an archbishop to realize that we weren't there as members of the Red Cross.

  The only thing we could think of was that we were a search and rescue team. These teams came as quite a big package, especially when the Americans were out to rescue one of their downed pilots. The pilots had a TACBE (tactical beacon) which transmitted on the international distress frequency, which AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) continuously listened to and got a fix on. Of course, everybody else was listening in as well, including the Iraqis. AWACS would locate the pilot from his beacon and relay the message. A search and rescue mission would then be stood to (made ready). The package would be a heli with an extraction party of eight to ten men
ready to give covering fire from the air, with machine guns mounted on the helicopter. The party might even be joined by a couple of Apache attack helicopters giving cover so that the bigger helicopter could come down and do the snatch. There would probably be top cover as well, a couple of jets like A10s to add to the hosing down if needed. There was a big emphasis on getting people back, and so there should be. Then you know that if you get in the shit, there'll be every effort made to come and save you, especially if you're a pilot.

  It's good for morale and flying efficiency, and quite apart from anything else there's the purely financial angle-millions of pounds' worth of training have gone into every single pilot.

  The Iraqis would be aware of these big rescue packages, and of the fact that inside the pickup helicopter there would be a medical team, mainly for trauma management. We were about the right numbers, and we would be dressing more or less uniformly. Contrary to common belief, we don't all walk around in what we like. You need a form of recognition so your own troops can identify you. You don't want to be shot by your own side: that's rather unprofessional. So for this sort of op you resemble some form of soldier.

  Because it was just normal PE4 that we would be carrying, we could say it was for our own protection-that sometimes we had to man an RV point while AWACS talked the downed pilot on to us. In such a case we'd put local protection out. "They've given us all this stuff," we would say,

  "but we don't really have a clue how to use it."

  Everybody had medical experience. The whole Regiment is trained to a high standard. Chris, being a patrol medic, was partly NHS (National Health Service) trained. Stan, of course, had a medical degree and a year of clinical experience. Search and Rescue is concerned mainly with trauma management, so people of our standard would be involved.

  The TACBEs would blend in with our story, but in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn't hold up for long, especially if we were caught with the cache equipment. We knew we wouldn't get more than two or three days out of the story, but that would be long enough for the Head Shed to do their assessment of the damage we could do to OP SEC What do they know? our Head Shed would ask-and how can it affect our future operations?

  They would have to assume that everything we knew, we would have told.

  That's why we are only told what we need to know-for our own good as well as everybody else's. At best, we'd just be giving them time.

  It was about six o'clock in the evening now and time for another break.

  The room really stank, and you could see the signs of strain on people's faces. We went and had a scoff, and for a change we all sat together.

  Normally you'd be off with your own mates and doing your own thing.

  "I was in the doghouse for watching Apocalypse Now on the box the night before we left," Vince said as he stirred his coffee.

  "Me too," Mark said. "But there was nothing else to do: the pubs were shut."

  Most people had experienced that same horrible lull when it was the early hours of the morning and they were just sitting there and waiting.

  Jilly and I had spent the day and night in strained silence. Only Bob had had a different time of it, boogying the night away at the club, rather badly as usual, apparently.

  We talked about how good the task was and how much we were looking forward to getting on the ground, but the excitement was tempered a bit by the thought of how isolated we would be. We knew it was risky, but it wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last-after all, this was what we were paid for. We filled our flasks ready for the next session.

  The mood was more lighthearted now as I summarized twelve hours of planning.

  "Right. We fly in by Chinook to a OOP (drop off point) twenty kilometers south of the MSR, then tab one night, maybe two, depending on the terrain and population, to the LUP-cum-cache. From there we'll carry out recce patrols to locate the landline. This hunt might take two or three nights: we just don't know until we get on the ground.

  Initially we will be preoccupied with finding the landline, but at the same time we'll OP (put an observation post on) the MSR, watching for Scud movement. If we see the world's supply of Scud moving along the MSR, we will assess and call in an air strike. If we see a Scud launch, we'll take a bearing, locate it, recce, then carry out a target attack.

  We'll then move back to the LUP and carry on with our tasking. All of this is very flexible until we get on the ground. We might get a Scud launch on our very first night. But we'll do nothing about it until we are firmly in an LUP-cum-cache position. There's no point screaming 'banzai!" and getting our arse kicked just for the sake of a bit of bravado and a solitary Scud. Better to take our time and do more damage. So we sort ourselves out, then we go and give it max. After fourteen days we'll exfiltrate to a pickup point prearranged with the aircrew before we infil, or we will give them an RV with our Sit Rep.

  They will come and either resupply us and redeploy us, or bring us back for re tasking All very simple really."

  And so it was. You must keep things that way if you can; then there's less to forget and less to go wrong. If a plan has many facets and depends on split second timing-and sometimes it does-it's more likely to fuck up. Plenty of plans have to be like this, of course, but you must always try to keep it simple. Keep it simple, keep it safe.

  We had a patrol radio for com ms between the FOB (forward operating base) in Saudi and the patrol. There was unlikely to be room for a spare because of the weight. Having just one was no problem because we were working as one patrol. We also had four TACBEs; it would have been ideal to have one each, but the kit just wasn't available. They are dual-purpose devices. Pull one tab out, and it transmits a beacon which is picked up by any aircraft.

  "I remember a story about a unit in Belize," I said. "Not from the Regiment, but they were jungle training. They were issued with TACBEs while they were in the jungle. One officer put his TACBE in his locker, and as he put it in, the tab of the distress beacon was pulled out and set off. Commercial aircraft were radioing in, everybody was running around. It took two days for them to find the beacon in his locker."

  "Dickhead."

  Pull out another tab, and you can use it like a normal radio, speaking within a limited range to aircraft overhead. You can also use TACBE to communicate with each other on the ground-a system known as working one-to-one-but it has to be line of sight and has a limited range. Its main use, however, would be to talk to AWACS if we were in trouble. We were informed that AWACS would be giving us twenty-four hour coverage and would answer our call within fifteen seconds. It was comforting to know that there'd be someone talking back to us in that nice, sedate, polite voice that AWACS always use to calm down pilots in distress. The problem was, TACBE was very easily DF'd (detected by direction-finding equipment). We'd only use it in an emergency, or if everything was going to rat shit on the air strikes.

  We also had another radio, operating on "Simplex" -the same principle as TACBE but on a different frequency, which worked over a range of about a kilometer. This was so we could talk to the helicopter if we had a major drama and call him back, or to direct him in. Because the transmission wattage was minuscule, it was almost impossible to DP, and we could use it quite safely.

  The main elements in our belt kit would be ammunition, water, emergency food, survival kit, shell dressings, a knife, and a prismatic compass as a backup for the Silva compass and for taking a bearing off the ground.

  Water and bullets: those are always the main considerations. All other kit is secondary, so personal comfort items would be the last to go in-and only if we had room. Survival kit is always suitable to theater and task, so out came the fishing lines, but we kept the heliograph, thumb saw, and magnifying glass for fire making. We also carried basic first aid kit, consisting of suture kit, painkillers, rehydrate, antibiotics, scalpel blades, fluid, and fluid-giving sets. The SOP (standard operating procedure) is to carry your two Syrettes of morphine around your neck, so that everybody knows where it is. If
you have to administer morphine, you always use the casualty's, not your own: you might be needing your own a few minutes later.

  We wouldn't bother with sleeping bags because of the bulk and weight, and because the weather would not be too bad. I would take a set of lightweight GoreTex, however, and everybody else took their poncho liner or space blanket. I also took my old woolly hat, since you lose a massive amount of body heat through your head. When I sleep, I pull it right over my face, which has the added advantage of giving that rather pleasant sense of being under the covers.

  In our berg ens we carried explosives, spare batteries for the patrol radio, more intravenous fluids and fluid giving sets, water, and food.

  Bob was elected to carry the piss can, a one-gallon plastic petrol container.

  When it was full, one of us would carry it a mile or so into the bush while on patrol, move a rock and dig a hole underneath it, empty the can, and replace the earth and rock. This would prevent detection by smell, animal interest, or insect activity.

  I delegated various other tasks.

  "Chris, you sort out the medic kit."

  He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.

  "Legs will sort out the scaley kit."

  For some reason unknown to me, signalers are usually called scaleys. I knew that among other tasks Legs would make sure we had spare antennas for the patrol radio, so that if we were compromised when the antenna was out we could just leave it out and move. We would still be able to communicate using the spare antenna. He would also check that everything had a fresh battery, that we had spare batteries, and that everything was actually working.

  "Vince and Bob, can you sort out the dems kit?"

  They would take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish, "If the enemy see as much as a spent match on the ground in front of them, they'll know you were there," the instructor on my Combat Survival course had said. "And if they find it behind them they'll know it was Special Forces."