The rebels’ ‘signature’ was to lop off the hands of women and children, offering them ‘long-sleeve’ or ‘short-sleeve’ style – the former being amputation below the elbow, the latter above it. They did so simply to spread sheer and utter terror across the land. Typical rebel ‘tactics’ involved surrounding an isolated village at night, killing all the able-bodied men, raping and mutilating the women, and then rounding up all the kids of ‘fighting age’ – the would-be child soldiers.
Boys of eleven and twelve were forced to rape their own mothers and kill their own fathers, or get macheted to death on the spot – and do so in front of the rest of the village. Thus, horribly traumatised and alienated from their surviving family and community, they were sucked into the rebel ranks. With no way back to their homes or their villages, the RUF became their only ‘family’. Young girls were taken in a similar way, as rebel fighters’ ‘wives’.
Once they were so ‘recruited’, the would-be rebels were fed a cocktail of crack cocaine, heroin and other drugs – ‘injected’ directly into the blood stream via cuts made in their foreheads. The nascent child soldiers quickly became drug-addicted. To cap it all they were bathed in vats of voodoo medicine by the rebels’ ‘high priestesses’, supposedly to make them ‘bulletproof’ and ‘invincible’ in battle.
RUF terror sorties were invariably led by these child soldier shock-troops, high on drugs and voodoo gibberish. More often than not they sported the most bizarre of ‘uniforms’: frilly dresses, fluorescent pink shell-suits, women’s wigs, and even animal costumes made from real animal skins. Yet in spite of all of this they were a force to be reckoned with. Several times during the decade-long civil war they had seized control of the entire country, including the nation’s capital, in an inconceivably dark and brutal orgy of violence that had cost over 70,000 lives.
After ten years of such warfare the Sierra Leone Army had been left largely impotent. Recently, some 17,000 United Nations peacekeepers had been drafted into the country, supposedly to keep the peace. They hailed from the Jordanian, Indian, Nigerian and other armed forces, and they very often lacked boots, radios or even weaponry to carry out their duties, not to mention a basic modicum of co-ordination, discipline or morale.
UNAMSIL – the United Nations Mission to Sierra Leone – was the largest UN peacekeeping force in history, but it had proved an utter debacle. The RUF had kidnapped dozens of peacekeepers, seized their armoured vehicles and looted their ammo dumps and their weaponry. Indeed, it was via seized UN trucks and armoured personnel carriers that the rebels were now making their final push on Freetown.
Some 800 PARAs, a handful of SAS and we Pathfinders were heavily outnumbered by the rebels. There was also increasing evidence of the RUF’s links to darker forces hailing from outside the country. Sierra Leone was blessed – or possibly cursed – with a surfeit of alluvial diamonds, which occurred near the surface and could be easily mined by hand. If anything, it was lust for the diamond wealth of the country that was driving this crazed war.
Recently, terrorist franchises like Al Qaeda had started popping up in the country, looking to buy up these illicit ‘conflict diamonds’ and so launder their millions. Diamonds represent the ultimate fungible asset – a handful of tiny rocks that are essentially undetectable at airports and borders but remain a store of enormous wealth to whoever holds them. Factor in the hard drugs being run through West Africa, and it was a dark and dangerous mix.
It was these concerns that had prompted Tony Blair to launch the present deployment. In fact, Blair had deeply personal reasons for intervening in Sierra Leone, for his father had worked in the country as a teacher and he felt personally compelled to act. And with Colonel Gibson having moved heaven and earth to get an entire battle group in-country, we had made a half-decent start.
At the same time the overall force commander, Brigadier David Richards – who would go on to become General Sir David Richards, chief of the Defence Staff – had very much nailed his colours to the mast. In a meeting with Sierra Leone’s embattled president, Ahmad Kabbah, Brigadier Richards had just made a signal promise: he had pledged that the British military would end the war in Sierra Leone once and for all, by knocking seven bales of shit out of the rebels.
After learning all of this I was doubly certain that this was not the time to contemplate withdrawing the Pathfinders from the country. Quite the reverse: there was a war to be fought here for all the right reasons, and against an enemy that needed to be given a right bloody nose.
I knew full well that if we jacked this mission we’d never live it down. The stigma would plague the Pathfinders for years to come, plus we’d never get another job like this. So it was just as well that we were about to get a top priority tasking – one designed to make Brigadier Richards’ promise of knocking seven bales of shit out of the rebels a reality.
As the Pathfinders’ platoon sergeant, I got to shape and form this tiny, bespoke unit in exactly the way I wanted. Kit failures and deficiencies apart, I didn’t think there was a unit out there that could touch us in terms of the elite skills we specialised in. You needed to build a special brotherhood to succeed at our level. After the countless hours spent sprinting around the base perimeter or tabbing in the Brecons, the long overnights in OPs and on recce taskings, not to mention all the HALO, HAHO and HAPLSS jumps, I reckoned the bonds formed between us were unbreakable.
Which was just as well, for in the coming days the Pathfinders were to be tested to the limits and beyond.
5
Things began to move lightning fast. We were ordered to break camp and mount up a waiting CH-47, to be flown back to Lungi Airport. Upon arrival we were rushed in for an emergency briefing with Colonel Gibson, who’d flown back alongside us.
Humint (human intelligence) sources had reported a huge rebel force massing some seventy kilometres or so to the north of Lungi Airport. The rebels were planning to attack just as we had the NEO in full swing, loading confused and frightened evacuees onto waiting aircraft. That way, there would be hundreds of British and allied civilians milling about in the airport, and they’d be easy game for the rebels.
The RUF’s intended route of advance was the dirt highway that threaded south through the swampy jungle – the one we’d kept watch over during our first night. We were getting flown far upcountry to an isolated clearing that straddled that track, near a village called Lungi Lol. The village was believed to be ‘friendly’, though nothing was ever certain with the ever-shifting allegiances that defined this war. Our role was to act as an early warning force, and to hold up the rebel advance for as long as was humanly possible.
The village was set deep in the jungle some sixty kilometres inland, so way beyond any British forces, which were massed around the airport and Freetown.
This was more like it. This was a classic Pathfinder tasking: an insertion ahead of British lines to recce, harass, sabotage and destroy. Colonel Gibson rounded off his briefing with this. ‘Your force is very much on its own, but I have every confidence in the Pathfinders. There will be a 1 PARA QRF on standby, for I understand the danger you are going into here. If it all goes pear-shaped, make your way back to British lines by whatever means possible.’
At least we had a QRF (Quick Reaction Force) of PARAs on standby, if it did all go to rat-shit. We gathered in the ramshackle terminal building over a map, so Donaldson could brief the patrol commanders in more detail. Thankfully, the OC seemed to have got some of his mojo back, now that we’d landed such an out-there kind of a mission.
‘We’re going in as a platoon to form an early warning group,’ Donaldson told the men. ‘Intel suggests rebel forces are moving to take the airport, or at least to attack and capture British soldiers and evacuating citizens. The CO wants us out there at his furthermost point, to put a clear stop to them.’
As the blokes digested what they’d just been told, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. This was the kind of tasking every Pathfinder dreams of.
‘Our intention is to move by helo some sixty klicks northeast,’ Donaldson continued. ‘We’ll take vehicles to give us mobility on the ground. The CO wants us in situ at this point – Lungi Lol – before last light, so we need to move it and begin liaison with the pilots. We could be going into a hot LZ. So prepare to E & E in case it does go loud. If we do need to E & E we’ll move to the coast, using this dirt track, and link up with the SBS who will be patrolling the coastline.’
E & E is short for escape and evasion – our bug-out plan if we were forced to go on the run. I was hunched over the map, shoulder to shoulder with Wag and Grant, but as I traced Donaldson’s proposed E & E route I didn’t like what I saw. We’d be heading southwest to a chokepoint, leaving our backs to the sea, and if the SBS lads failed to show we’d have nowhere to run to but the water.
I glanced at Wag, my finger tracing the route. ‘It doesn’t look like we can move any further than there,’ I muttered, speaking out of the corner of my mouth. ‘If we get there and we’re being followed by the rebels we’re fucked.’
‘Yep. Agreed.’
‘It’s not like SBS will be parked up waiting for us. It could be hours before they’re tasked to us or available.’
‘Agreed.’
Donaldson finished his briefing and asked for any questions.
‘Yeah – just the one,’ I volunteered. ‘The option to move southwest to the coast if we have to E & E …’
‘Yes, what of it?’
‘Boss, you do realise if we do that we’re moving to a chokepoint leaving our backs to the sea. If we’re being pursued and we hit the sea with no pick-up … ’
‘Steve, that’s what’s been agreed. Move on.’
Agreed by bloody whom, I wondered? A unit like the Pathfinders operates as a meritocracy. Every bloke, regardless of rank, gets to have his say. We had a way of doing things, a collective means of decision-making that meant there were checks and balances.
‘Boss, I’ve got to agree with Steve,’ Wag volunteered. ‘We’ll be pinned with nowhere left to go.’
Donaldson now had his platoon sergeant and his Ops Warrant Officer voicing concerns. Between us, Wag and me had over twenty-five years’ experience of elite force operations.
‘It’s agreed with the boss,’ Donaldson countered. ‘Move on. Sort the kit. Let’s get on with it.’
With that he strode off to the ops room. The looks on the faces of the rest of us said it all. Small unit operations rely on command and control decisions cascading down. Officers need to trust their NCOs and patrol commanders to highlight faults in plans and identify how things can be done better. They need to earn respect. Donaldson’s reluctance to use the expertise and experience of the men ran counter to everything the Pathfinders stood for, and the very soul of the unit.
I could feel Nathe, Dolly and the other patrol commanders eyeing Grant, Wag and me.
‘You need to get this bloody sorted,’ Nathe grumbled.
‘Go brief your patrols and we’ll deal with it,’ I reassured him.
‘Nathe, we know,’ said Wag. ‘Leave it with us. Go back, brief your blokes on the mission. We’re going in light order for a forty-eight-hour tasking, so twenty-four hours’ worth of food and water in belt kit, then a further forty-eight hours in your daysack …’
Once Wag was done the patrol commanders split. Tricky headed off to liaise with the signallers from other units, to sort call-signs, frequencies, timings of the Scheds, and the use of the Crypto – cryptographically encoded communications systems. That left Grant, Wag and me to chew over the E & E issue.
‘Grant, mate, at some stage soon you need to go talk to Donaldson,’ I told him. ‘Officer to officer. You need to get him to listen, ‘cause this is crucial shit.’
Grant nodded. ‘I know. I’ll have words.’
Grant was still a relatively young and inexperienced officer. I had five years in age over him, plus a decade of elite soldiering, and Wag had more. His reluctance to go against a fellow officer and the unit’s OC was understandable. As NCOs, me and Wag would simply get a bollocking if we fronted up to Donaldson. If Grant was seen as undermining the command of a fellow officer it could seriously harm his career, but someone needed to get Donaldson to see sense.
It was around 1300 hours by now, and we were scheduled to get airborne at 1500 hours and on the ground at the LZ thirty minutes thereafter. In the interim we had a shedload to organise. We had to sort an air-plan with the Chinook pilots, gather all our kit, rations and water, sort the comms and the wagons – we’d just had two Pinzgauers flown in on a Hercules – load and secure them in the CH-47s, and get ourselves good to go.
But the chief worry for me right now – apart from the faulty E & E plan – was this: as the platoon sergeant I was acutely aware of our appalling lack of ammo and weaponry with which to go up against several thousand rebels. We still had just the sixty rounds per man for our SA8os, plus nothing whatsoever for the GPMGs. And there was a shedload of other assorted weaponry and explosives I’d very much like for a mission such as this one.
It was now that Wag had one of his brainwaves. Mick Robson was the 1 PARA RQMS – Regimental Quartermaster – and a guy we knew well. He was six-foot-four, blond, wiry and he was nobody’s fool. Near the edge of the runway he’d established a makeshift ammo dump. He’d driven metal pickets into the ground and stretched razor wire between them, fencing off an area some twenty metres by twenty metres.
A couple of 1 PARA privates had been set to guard the ammo dump, but as Wag pointed out that didn’t mean that we couldn’t go on the scrounge. We hurried over. We found Mick in the centre of the Kingdom of Mick, overseeing more ammo supplies that had just been flown in. He glanced up at us with a look on his face – here they come again, the Pathfinder likely lads on the scrounge.
I gave him my best winning smile. ‘Mick, mate, long time no see. We’re heading upcountry, mate, and we could well end up in a firefight. Trouble is we’ve got fuck-all to fight with, so we need whatever ammo you can spare us … mate.’
Mick stared at the two of us, then gestured at the palettes ranged all around him. ‘How long’s a bit of string. Any idea exactly what you’re after?’
I ran my eye around the Kingdom of Mick feeling like a kiddie in a sweet shop. One palette was piled high with metal boxes of 5.56 mm ball ammo: SA80 rounds. Next to that was a mound of 7.62 mm belted link: GPMG ammo. Two dozen LAW 94 mm anti-armour rockets were laid out nearby, along with crates of 51 mm mortar rounds.
But the real Aladdin’s Cave lay on the far side of the razor wire fence: the demolitions and explosives enclosure. PE4 plastic explosives, timers, detonators, detonation cord – Mick would have the works in there. Being a true pro he’d sorted his ammo dump so as not to exceed the NEQ – the net explosive quantity. Under British Army rules you could only store a certain amount of explosive material – the NEQ – in one dump, hence the demolitions enclosure being placed to one side. It was set under a poncho, to keep the sun off the stuff that goes bang.
I licked my lips, wondering just how hard to push things. I opened with this. ‘Mick, we’ve got five guns: how much ammo can you spare us for each?’
‘Guns’ is military speak for the GPMGs.
Mick rolled his eyes. ‘400 rounds.’
‘How about six?’ I countered.
‘All right. Six – you’re done. What else?’
I told him we had sixty rounds per man for the SA8os – but I wanted 330 rounds per man, so over five times that amount. Each man needed to have six mags of thirty rounds each, plus a bandolier containing an extra 150. The bandolier is a long green sleeve that you sling around your torso, consisting of five compartments each containing thirty rounds.
Mick nodded. ‘Yeah, okay. Suppose you can have that. Next?’
I eyed the LAWs. ‘What about four of them – them LAWs, Mick?’
He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. ‘Fuck … Well, okay. Take ’em. Just keep it quiet. Next?’
‘M
ick, any L2s or Claymores in-country?’
The L2 is the British Army’s high-explosive fragmentation grenade, the Claymore a curved anti-personnel device of devastating lethality.
Mick shook his head. ‘Nope. Next?’
I’d brought with me a 51 mm mortar tube from our armoury, but as yet I had no ammo. ‘What about 51 mm rounds?’
‘There’s illume, but no HE.’
Illume are flare rounds, ones that burst high in the sky to illuminate a battlefield. Not quite high-explosive (HE) rounds, but better than nothing.
‘Okay, great: how many can I have?’
He pointed to a nearby crate: ‘Here – just take that bloody box while no one’s looking.’
I’d open that crate later to discover eighteen rounds inside. I had no idea right now what a total lifesaver they would prove to be.
‘Right, Mick, what else have you got?’
He stared at us for a long second. ‘You’re fucking joking me.’
I pointed to the second enclosure – the demolitions dump. ‘What’s that, Mick, under that poncho?’
‘You lot are never bloody satisfied. It’s the demms kit.’
‘Let’s have a look, then.’
Mick hesitated, then he stepped between Wag and me, moving towards the gate. Out of the corner of his mouth he muttered: ‘You two wankers coming, or what?’
We moved around the corner to a tiny gate, then stepped inside the sacred enclosure. I pointed at a box of PE4. ‘Mick, how much of that have you got?’
‘About fifteen pounds.’
My mind was racing. PE4 comes in a block like a thick cigar. It’s off-white, smells a bit like marzipan, and is wrapped in a kind of greaseproof paper. Fifteen pounds equalled thirty sticks.
‘Mick, can I have ten sticks?’
‘If I give it you, will you fuck off?’
Operation Mayhem Page 7
