Bravo two zero

by Andy McNab

  After I had delivered them verbally, the orders would be handed over to the operations center. They would stay there until the mission was completed, so that if anything went wrong, everybody would know what I wanted to happen. If we ought to have been at point A by day 4, for example, and we weren't, they'd know that I wanted a fast jet flying over so I could make contact by TACBE.

  The top of each orders sheet is overprinted with the words Remember Need to Know to remind you of OP SEC It's critically important that nobody should know anything that does not concern him directly. The pilots, for example, would not attend the orders.

  I started by describing the ground we were going to cover. You have to explain your orders as if nobody's got a clue what's going on-so in this case I started by pointing out where Iraq was and which countries bordered it. Then you go into the area in detail, which for us was the bend in the MSR. I described the lie of the ground and the little topographical information I had. Everything that I knew, they had to know.

  Next I gave times of first and last light, the moon states, and the weather forecast. I had been confidently informed by the met blokes that the weather should be cool and dry. Weather information is important because if, for example, you have been briefed in the orders that the prevailing wind is from the northeast, you can use that information to help you with your navigation. Since the weather was still forecast as fairly clement for the duration of our mission, we had again elected to leave our sleeping bags behind. Not that there would have been any room to take them anyway.

  I now gave the Situation phase of the orders. I would normally tell at this point everything I knew about the enemy that concerned us-weapons, morale, composition, and strengths, and so on-but the intelligence was very scanty. I would also normally mention the location of any friendly forces and how they could help us, but for our op there was nothing to tell.

  Next was the mission statement, which I repeated twice. It was just as the OC had given it to us in the briefing room: one, to locate and destroy the landline in the area of the northern MSR, and two, to find and destroy Scud.

  Now came Execution, the real meat of the orders-how we were actually going to carry out the mission. I gave a general outline, broken down into phases, a bit like telling a story.

  "Phase 1 will be the infiltration, which will be by the Chinook. Phase 2 will be moving up to the LUP-cum cache area. Phase 3 will be LUP routine. Phase 4 will be the recce, then target attack on the landline.

  Phase 5 will be the actions on Scud location. Phase 6 will be the exfiltration, or resupply and re tasking Then, for each phase, I would go into the detail of how we were going to do it. This has to be as detailed as possible to eliminate gray areas.

  After every phase I then gave the "actions on"-for instance, actions on compromise during the drop-off, if the patrol came under fire just as the heli.took off again. Then people would know what I wanted to happen when there was no drama, and they'd also know what needed to happen if there was.

  That was all very fine in theory, of course, but for each of these actions on, you also need to describe every detail of how you want things to be done. All of this had to be talked about and worked out beforehand and then given in the formal orders. Forward planning saves time and energy on the ground because people then know what is required of them. For example, what happens if the heli is required to return to the patrol at some stage to replace a damaged radio? When the heli lands do we go around to the back of the aircraft? Do we take the new radio out of the load master side door? How do we actually call the heli in? What is the authentication code? The answer to this one was that we'd give a phonetic code, the letter Bravo, as recognition. The heli pilot would know that at a certain grid, or in a certain area within that grid, he was going to see us flashing Bravo on infrared. He'd be looking through his PNG (passive night goggles), and because I'd told him so, he'd know he would land 15 feet to the left-hand side of the B when he saw it. Then, because he was landing on my right hand side, all I'd have to do was walk past the cockpit to the load master door, which is behind the cockpit on the left-hand side on the Chinook, throw a radio in, and catch the radio that they threw out. If there were any messages they'd grab my arm and give them to me on a bit of paper. The exchange would be all over in a minute.

  It took about an hour and a half to go through all the details of each phase. Next were coordinating instructions, the nitty-gritty details like timings, grid references, RVs, locations of interest. These had already been given but would be said again to confirm. This stage also included actions on capture, and details of the E&E plan.

  I covered service support, which was an inventory of the stores and equipment we were taking with us. And finally I described the chain of command and signals -types of radio, frequencies, schedules, codes and code words and any field signals that were unique to the task.

  "As I'm sure you all know by now," I said, "our call sign is Bravo Two Zero. The chain of command is myself as patrol commander and Vince as 2 i/c. The rest of you can fight for it."

  It was now the patrol's chance to ask questions, after which we synchronized watches.

  The air brief was given by the pilot, since he would be in command during the infil and exfil phases. He showed us a map of the route we were going to take, and talked at some length about the likely difficulty of antiaircraft sites and attack by Roland ground-to-air missiles. He told us what he wanted to happen in the back of the aircraft, and the actions on crashing. I had talked to him about this before and was secretly glad that he wanted us to split up, with the aircrew and the patrol taking their own chances. To be honest, we wouldn't have wanted a bunch of aircrew with us, and for some reason they were not particularly keen to come with us anyway. He spoke, too, about deconfliction, because there were going to be air raids going in on surrounding targets-a number of fixed-launch sites were going to be hosed down within 6 miles of our drop-off point. Our deconfliction was arranged to enable us to slip in under these air strikes and use them for cover.

  The orders group ended at about 1100. Everybody now knew what they had to do, where they were doing it, and how they were going to do it.

  At lunchtime, we were told that because of deconfliction we might not be able to get in. However, we were going to attempt it anyway-you don't know until you try. We would refuel just short of the Saudi/ Iraq border, then go over with full tanks. We did a final round of checks, loaded the kit onto wagons, and ate as much fresh food as we could get down us.

  We were eager to go. The mood was very much one of let's just get in there and do it. We'd leave it to the other blokes to run round stealing tents and kit and generally square everything away. The camp would be sorted out by the time we returned.

  At 1800 we climbed into the vehicles and drove across to the Chinook. It was all rather casual, with blokes from the squadron coming up and saying, "What size are those new boots of yours-you won't be needing them again, will you?" At our first location four or five of us had nicked some foam mattresses, operating on the usual principle: if it's there and it's shiny, take it. Now some of the other patrols started coming over and saying, "You won't be needing it ever again, will you, so you can leave it for us." They accompanied it with the motion of digging our graves.

  Even the RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) appeared. "Get in there, do the business, and come back." That was the extent of his brief.

  Bob suddenly remembered something. "I've fucked up," he said to a mate.

  "I haven't completed the will form. My mum's name is down and I've signed it-you'll have to dig in my kit for her address. Can you make sure it's all sorted and handed in?"

  I had a quick chat with the pilots. They'd been given sets of body armor and were going through big decisions about what to do with it-whether to sit on it so they didn't get their bollocks shot off, or actually wear it so they didn't get shot in the chest. They came to the conclusion that it was better to wear it on the chest, because they could live without their balls. />
  "Not that he has any," said the copilot, "as you will soon find out."

  It was still light and we could see the downwash of the rotors kicking up a fierce sandstorm as the helicopter took off. When the dust settled, all we could see was blokes looking skywards and waving.

  We flew low-level across the desert. At first we watched the ground, but there wasn't much to see-just a vast area of sand and a few hills.

  Dotted across the desert there were peculiar circles that looked like corn circles in reverse-crops growing up rather than pushed down. They were horticultural sites that looked from the air like green sewage-treatment plants, with large watering arms turning constantly to irrigate the crops. They looked so out of place in the barren landscape.

  It was last light and we were about 12 miles short of the border when the pilot spoke into the headsets.

  "Get the blokes up to the window and have a look at this."

  Countless aircraft were in the sky a thousand feet above us.

  Orchestrated by AWACS, they were flying with split second timing along a complex network of air corridors to avoid collision. Every one of them had its forward lights on. The sky was ablaze with light. It was like Star Wars, all these different colored lights from different sizes of aircraft. We were doing about 100 knots; they must have been flying at 500 or 600. I wondered if they knew about us. I wondered if they were saying to themselves: let's hope we can do a good job so these guys can get in and do their thing. I doubted it.

  Two fighters screamed down to check us out, then flew back up.

  "We're 5Ks short of the border," the pilot said. "Watch what happens now."

  As he spoke, and as if a single fuse controlling the Blackpool illuminations had blown, the sky was suddenly pitch-black. Every aircraft had dowsed its lights at once.

  We landed in inky blackness for a hot refuel, which meant staying on board with the rotors moving. We were going to receive the final "go" or "no go" here regarding the vital deconfliction, and as the ground crew loomed out of the darkness, I watched anxiously for somebody to give an encouraging signal. One of them looked at the pilot and revolved his hand: Turnaround.

  Bastard!

  Another bloke ran up to the pilot with a bit of paper and pushed it through the window.

  The pilot's voice came over our headsets a moment later: "It's a no go, no go; we've got to go back."

  Dinger was straight on the intercom. "Well, fuck it, let's get over the border anyway, just to say we've been over there-come on, it's just a couple of Ks away: it won't take long to get there and back. We need to get over, just to stop the slagging when we return."

  But that wasn't the way the pilot saw it. We stayed on the ground for another twenty minutes while he did his checks and the refueling was completed; then we lifted off and headed south. Wagons were waiting for us. We unloaded all the kit and were taken to the half-squadron location, which by this time had been moved to the other side of the airfield. People had dug shell scrapes and covered them with ponchos and bits of board and cardboard to keep out the wind. It looked like a dossers' camp, bodies in little huddles everywhere, around hexy-block fires.

  The patrol were in dark moods, not only because of the anticlimax of not getting across the border, but also because we weren't sure what was going to happen next. I was doubly unimpressed because I had given my mattress away.

  All during the day of the 20th we just hung loose, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a slot.

  We checked the kit a couple more times and tried to make ourselves a bit of a home in case we had a long wait. We got some camouflage netting up-not from the tactical point of view, because the airfield was in a secure area-but just to keep the wind off and give us some shade during the day. It gives you an illusion of protection to be sheltered under something. Once we had made ourselves comfy, we screamed around the place in LSVs (light strike vehicles) and pinkies seeing what we would nick. The place was a kleptomaniac's dream.

  We did some good exchanges with the Yanks. Our rations are far superior to the American MREs (meals ready to eat), but theirs do contain some pleasant items -like bags of M&M's and little bottles of Tabasco sauce to add a little je the sais quoi to the beef and dumplings. Another fine bit of Yank kit is the strong plastic spoon that comes with the MRE pack. You can burn a little hole through the back of it, put some string through, and keep it in your pocket: an excellent, almost perfect racing spoon.

  Because our foam mattresses had been whisked away to a better world during the abortive flight, we tried to get hold of some comfy US issue cots. The Americans had kit coming out of their ears, and bless their cotton socks, they'd happily swap you a cot for a couple of boxes of rations.

  Little America was on the other side of the airfield. They had everything from microwaves and doughnut machines to Bart Simpson videos screening twenty four hours a day. And why not-the Yanks sure know how to fight a stylish war. Schoolkids in the States were sending big boxes of goodies to the soldiers: pictures from 6-year-olds of a good guy with the US flag, and a bad guy with the Iraqi flag, and the world's supply of soap, toothpaste, writing material, combs, and antiperspirant. They were just left open on tables in the canteen for people to pick what they wanted.

  The Yanks could not have made us more welcome, and we were straight in there, drinking frothy cappuccino and having a quick root through.

  Needless to say, we had most of it away.

  Some of the characters were outrageous and great fun to talk to, especially some of the American pilots who I took to be members of the National Guard. They were all lawyers and sawmill managers in real life, big old boys in their forties and fifties, covered in badges and smoking huge cigars, flying their Thunderbolts and whooping "Yeah boy!" all over the sky. For some of them, this was their third war. They were excellent people, and they had amazing stories to tell. Listening to them was an education.

  During the next two days we went over the plan again. Now that we had a bit more time, was there anything we could improve on? We talked and talked, but we kept it the same.

  It was frustration time, just waiting, as if we were in racing blocks and the starter had gone into a trance. I was looking forward to the relief of actually being on the ground.

  We had a chat with a Jaguar pilot whose aircraft had been stranded at the airfield for several days. On his very first sortie he had had to abort because of problems with a generator.

  "I want to spend the rest of the war here," he said. "The slagging I'll get when I fly back will be way out of control."

  We felt quite sorry for him. We knew how he felt.

  Finally, on the 21st, we got the okay to go in the following night.

  On the morning of the 22nd we woke at first light. Straightaway Dinger got a fag on.

  Stan, Dinger, Mark, and I were all under one cam net, surrounded by rations and all sorts of boxes and plastic bags. In the middle was a little hexy-block fire for cooking.

  Stan got a brew going from the comfort of his sleeping bag. Nobody wanted to rise and shine because it was so bloody cold. We lay there drinking tea, gob bing off, and eating chocolate from the rations. Our beauty sleep had been ruined by another two Scud alerts during the night. We were sleeping with most of our kit on anyway, but it was a major embuggerance to have to pull on your boots, flak jacket, and helmet and leg it down to the slit trenches. Both times We only had to wait ten minutes for the all clear.

  Dinger opened foil sachets of bangers and beans and got them on the go.

  Three or four cups of tea and, in Dinger's case, three cigarettes later, we tuned in to the World Service. Wherever you are in the world, you'll learn what's going on from them before any other bugger tells you. We take small shortwave radios with us on all operations and exercises anyway, because if you're stuck in the middle of the jungle, the only link with the outside world you ever get is the World Service.

  Everywhere you go, people are always bent over their radios tuning in, because the frequ
encies change depending on the time of day. We were going to take them out on this job as well, because the chances were that it was the first we'd know that the war had ended. Nobody would be able to tell us until we made com ms and that could be the day after Saddam surrendered. We took the piss out of Dinger's radio because it's held together with bits of tape and string. Everybody else had a digital one, and Dinger still had his old steam-powered thing that took an age to tune in.

  We had heard rumors that there was going to be some mail in that day, our first load since arriving in Saudi. It would be rather nice to hear from home before we went off. I was in the process of buying a house with Jilly, and I had to sign a form giving her power of attorney. I was hoping that was going to come through; otherwise, there would be major dramas for her to sort out if I got topped.

  The pilot and copilot came over, and we had a final chat about stowing the equipment. I went through the lost com ms routine and actions on contact at the OOP again, to make doubly sure we were both clear in our minds.

  We spoke to the two loadies, lads in their twenties who were obviously great fans of Apocalypse Now, because the Chinook had guns hanging off it all over the place. The only things missing were the tiger-head emblems on their helmets and Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" coming out of their intercom speakers. For them, getting across the border was a once in-a-lifetime opportunity. They were loving it.

  The pilots knew of some more Roland positions and had worked out a route around them, but from the way the loadies were talking you'd have thought they actually wanted to be attacked. They were gagging to get in amongst it. I imagined it would be a huge anticlimax for them if they dropped us off and came back in one piece.

  I checked my orders at a table on the other side of the airfield, undistracted. Because the first infil had been aborted, I would have to deliver an orders group all over again that afternoon-not in as much detail, but going over the main points.