Operation Mayhem

by Steve Heaney MC

  Ginge Wilson, 33 Charlie’s commander, was a northerner with a distinctive Mancunian accent. Around five-foot-ten, with a whippet-like runner’s physique, Ginge had the impulsive ways typical of a ‘racing snake’. He had only recently been promoted to patrol command, and was one of the least experienced and most excitable of the lot – hence my decision to sandwich his patrol between Nathe and Taff’s, putting an experienced pair of hands to either side of him.

  Taff Saunders – 33 Delta’s commander – hailed from the Royal Regiment of Wales, and he was a five-foot-ten, 15-stone, hard-as-nails Welsh rugby player. He had a thick Welsh accent – he called everyone ‘bud’ – and he would only ever refer to God’s own country – England – as ‘the annexe’, a carbuncle on the otherwise unblemished face of the Welsh motherland.

  Taff hailed from the Rhondda Valley – the heart of the land of myths and dragons. The blokes ripped the piss constantly: How can you be under cover behind enemy lines with an accent like that? Guys from the Rhondda all marry their sisters. We did a lot of our training in South Wales, and you have to cross the Severn Bridge to get there. It’s a toll bridge, but you only pay the one way, going from England into Wales.

  Taff would torture us with that. ‘Hey, bud, you only pay to get into Wales, not the other way around. No one pays to get into England.’

  I referred to Taff as my ‘yeah-but’ man. He was a natural-born brawler and great in a bar fight, but he always had an answer for everything. A typical conversation with Taff went like this.

  Me: ‘Right, Taff, what I need from you is

  Taff: ‘Yeah, but, it’d be far better, bud, if we …’

  I’d sited Taff out on our right flank – one of our most isolated and vulnerable positions – for a very good reason: I knew that the tough little Welsh git would never back down from a fight.

  Wag and me left the lads to dig themselves some hasty shell-scrapes – the fastest way to get a bunch of soldiers below ground. A shell-scrape is a hole some two metres long, one and a half wide and three-quarters of a metre deep. It’s big enough for two men to lie side by side facing the enemy, along with their kit – Bergens, webbing and weaponry. Shell-scrapes provide decent protection against fire, and limited protection against a nearby ground-burst explosion.

  If the men had the time, they’d create additional cover by building up a ‘bullet mantle’ – using the soil they’d dug out of the hole to mound up around the front and sides – and then camouflaging that with local vegetation. That would provide the kind of defence that is our minimum for a twenty-four- to forty-eight-hour mission such as this one.

  For the moment everything was going like clockwork. From an insertion onto a potentially hot LZ we’d formed a front line of defence across a village that seemed to be largely peaceful. Having sited the patrols, Wag and I made our way back to the HQ position. But before we could get much of a heads-up with Grant and Donaldson, the first figure to appear emerged from the bush.

  He wasn’t quite what we had been expecting.

  He was tall and ebony-skinned, and dressed in a spotless set of combat fatigues, topped off by a pair of enormous mirror shades, plus a distinctive light blue beret. It seemed as if there was at least one UN peacekeeper based here in the village of Lungi Lol.

  We beckoned him to approach. His sunglasses were so completely black that you couldn’t see his eyes, and they had massive Foster Grant golden frames. They covered his face from his eyebrows to his cheek-bones, but other than that he was parade-ground smart. He was freshly shaven, his combats had sharp creases down the front and his boots were polished to a gleaming, mirror finish.

  Impeccable.

  He opened his mouth to introduce himself and out came this educated, public school English. He sounded posher than any of us lot – Grant and Donaldson included.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Lieutenant Oronto Obasanjo, from the Nigerian Army, forming up part of UNAMSIL, the United Nations peacekeeping mission here in Sierra Leone. You are most welcome. You are from which nation’s military – Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, if I am not mistaken?’

  Grant and Donaldson recovered pretty well from the shock and did the introductions. Meet and greet done, we asked him for a ground orientation brief – a talk around the position. He proceeded to outline the lie of the land. The village was maybe eight hundred yards from end to end, with some fifty huts scattered along its length. There was little evidence of furniture or other material possessions amongst the villagers, and between each of the huts lay a swathe of thickly-vegetated farmland, where they grew most of their food.

  Our two Pinzgauers parked up on the village square were the only vehicles in the entire place. At the southern edge of the square was a more substantial hut, and that was the village headman’s place, the lieutenant explained. It was something like the mayor’s office, and from there the chief oversaw everything that happened in his domain.

  That was about all Lieutenant Obasanjo had to tell us. Apart from this: he’d been deployed to Lungi Lol six months earlier leading a force of sixteen fellow Nigerians. In the entire time he and his men had been here they had received not one visit from their commanders in UNAMSIL or even a set of orders. They had no food rations, they hadn’t been paid for months and they had very limited supplies of ammo. In short, this was a typical UNAMSIL operation – chaotic, dysfunctional and forgotten by everyone in command.

  Under the circumstances, what the lieutenant told us next was hardly surprising: his men had gone native. They’d discarded their uniforms in favour of T-shirts and sarongs, and shacked up with local village ladies as ‘wives’. It was only Lieutenant Obasanjo, it seemed, who had refused to let standards drop. A true blue officer, he was determined to keep up appearances come what may.

  ‘What, if anything, has happened in the village in terms of the rebels, the RUF?’ Donaldson asked him, once he’d finished telling us about his posting. ‘Have you had any encounters with the RUF while you’ve been here?’

  The lieutenant shook his head. ‘No. We have seen no sign of the RUF. In fact, we have had very few if any visitors.’

  This was bizarre, way out left-field kind of shit. We’d flown into what we’d been warned was potentially a hot LZ, only to be met by a Nigerian officer fresh from the parade ground, with seemingly not a worry in the world. More bizarre still, his was no UN checkpoint keeping watch for rebel movement: it was sixteen blokes who’d discarded their uniforms, got married to the locals and become a part of village life. And if the lieutenant was to be believed, he and his men were quite happy thank you being left here to rot by the UN.

  In a sense you had to take your hat off to the guy. He wasn’t moaning or feeling sorry for himself. He and his men had adapted to the situation as they’d found it. Abandoned by all, they’d done what they had to in order to survive. And if the lieutenant didn’t have a local wife then he was up all night washing and starching his uniform and polishing his boots, which I didn’t think was very likely.

  ‘Can you fucking believe it?’ Wag remarked, once the lieutenant had left us. ‘Fucking Lieutenant Mojo and his Gone Native Crew – chilling out in Lungi Lol?’

  I laughed. Lieutenant Mojo. That was it – the name stuck.

  We set about building an ATAP at the HQ position – a simple wooden frame thatched over with branches and leaves. It was a temporary structure designed to last the next forty-eight hours – the supposed duration of the mission – and was for shelter and camouflage only. Then we slung our hammocks from the nearby trees. Sewn from parachute silk, they are incredibly strong, lightweight and versatile. But as with so much of our gear we had to buy the raw materials and get a wife, girlfriend or mother to sew it for us, for the British Army didn’t possess such kit.

  The cost of getting one of those para-silk hammocks made was a considerable burden and many – especially the married blokes – simply couldn’t afford it. They came complete with a para-silk mozzie net, one that pulled over the top, and a waterproof p
oncho above that. Half a squash ball threaded onto the cords at either end stopped any water running down or insects getting in. The hammocks were perfect for deep-jungle missions, yet the entire lot weighed less than two pounds.

  The hammock situation typified how ludicrous was the British Army’s kit-procurement system – the same system that had endorsed the SA80 over the M16. The British Army did issue hammocks, but they were made from thick nylon, came complete with collapsible aluminium struts, and were designed to double as a stretcher. Great idea on paper. Shit in reality. They were impossibly heavy, rattled as you moved and took an age to erect and take down.

  They typified the Army’s egghead mentality, whereby kit was rarely if ever tested by those who would use it at the hard end of soldiering. The trials and development unit of the British Army should have been manned by soldiers who’d served on operations, and had the experience and ingenuity to make kit workable in the field. Instead, it was staffed by SO1 (staff officer 1) colonels who’d rarely if ever been out at the dirty end of ops.

  Normally, we’d set trip flares around positions such as those we’d taken up at Lungi Lol, to warn of any hostile forces creeping forward under cover of darkness, plus we’d position motion sensors on the ground to detect any movement. The motion sensors consist of a transmit–receive module that looks like a transistor radio, plus eight individual sensors each the size of a 12-bore shotgun cartridge. You’d hollow out a small hole and bury each sensor just below the surface, in areas you couldn’t cover by fire, or to plug gaps in your defences.

  There are eight LEDs on the transmitter–receiver. The buried sensors can detect seismic activity – so ground disturbance within a twenty-metre radius. If someone walks past, the sensor picks up the movement and transmits a message back to the receiver, at which point the LED corresponding to that sensor lights up. With each sensor’s location plotted on your map, you’d then know you had something moving at position X.

  But with none of that kind of kit available in Lungi Lol, it was up to human watchfulness to detect any rebel approach.

  Just prior to last light we called the patrol commanders in for ‘prayers’ – a communal heads-up, and to set the routine for the coming night hours. We gathered in a circle – Nathe, Dolly, Ginge, Taff, Wag, Grant, Tricky, Donaldson and me. Prayers is a concept that lies at the heart of the Pathfinders: it’s supposed to be a time when all ranks are free to contribute to whatever is being planned.

  Donaldson began by outlining our mission. ‘Now, the reason why we are here is to observe for any rebel movement and to stop them infiltrating further south,’ Donaldson began. ‘The threat is from rebel attack, which makes holding the village key. We need to presume the rebels’ approach will be via the main track from the northeast. They’ve got the same constraints as us, so they can’t move unless using that dirt highway. We’ll set stags through the night keeping watch, two on and two off …’

  ‘We need to make the ERV west along the main track,’ Grant piped up, once Donaldson was done. ‘Then we can E & E to Lungi Airport that way.’

  ERV stands for Emergency Rendezvous – the point at which we’d come together if we were on the run. Behind Grant’s seemingly innocuous comment lay a whole change of plan. He was suggesting that we E & E down the main highway to Freetown and Lungi Airport – in other words, abandoning Donaldson’s plan that pitched us directly into the sea.

  Donaldson stared at his fellow officer for a second, before nodding his assent. ‘Okay. Good one, Grant. We’ll do that.’

  A silent sigh of relief went around the men. At least we’d got the E & E sorted.

  We discussed actions-on if the rebels hit us in overwhelming numbers and we couldn’t hold on for the QRF. If we had to bug out we’d try to use the vehicles and keep together as a unit. We’d move fast down the main drag, using the Pinzgauers to carry our wounded, and with the rest of us beasting it on foot. If we got split up the ERV was set as a point on the map 1.5 klicks down the dirt highway. Those already gathered at the ERV would sit on a standoff bearing, allowing them to watch the ERV unobserved, and check if any new arrivals were ‘friendlies’.

  We’d keep the ERV ‘open’ for two hours following the time of first contact with the enemy, giving every man that long to make it – at which point everyone gathered there would bug out. Our next ERV was the ‘War RV’ – the point at which we had entered the country as a unit – so Lungi Airport itself.

  ‘To help keep watch on the main highway I want some early warning out front of the patrols,’ Donaldson announced. ‘Steve, Grant: you two take a couple of blokes and a Pinz and push forward five hundred yards out on the track.’

  I glanced at Grant, worriedly. We’d sited the patrols well and got our defences sorted. We were ready. Sending four guys alone and unsupported at night into unknown terrain, and into the teeth of a rebel advance – it didn’t make any sense. Not in my book, anyway.

  I gritted my teeth. ‘Boss, in light of everything we know, do we really want four blokes five hundred yards out there and at night? Especially as that’s the way the rebels will come. We’ll be isolated, unsupported, and in unknown territory.’

  ‘Yes, we do. I need eyes out there.’

  ‘I understand that, boss, but any movement to our flanks and we’ll be cut off.’

  ‘No, ’cause you’ll be covered from the village.’

  Covered from the village? We’d be a good half a kilometre out from our forward positions. The accurate range of an SA80 is far less than that, even if the lads could see in the darkness to aim and to shoot properly. More to the point some three hundred yards out from the village the track kinked northwards, putting it out of sight beyond. I figured we’d be unseen, out of range, and cloaked in darkness.

  To my mind, we’d be lacking proper cover and support.

  If an order or direction is delivered in a way that is rational and sensible, and I can understand why it needs to be done, I will embrace it. But as far as I was concerned this was none of those things. Pathfinder prayers always ends with ‘going around the bazaars’ – getting input from each of the men present.

  ‘Anyone got anything else to say?’ Donaldson asked. ‘Dolly? Taff? Ginge? Nathe? Nope? Okay, get ready in your positions for stand-to.’

  At first and last light we do stand-to. Militaries the world over have worked out that those times are the best at which to launch an attack. At first light men are likely to be sleepy and less alert, but there is enough light to see and fight by. At last light they are likely to be tired from the day’s activities, and looking forward to a good feed and a rest. Accordingly, we get locked and loaded and on high alert at first and last light, with every man ready to rumble.

  After stand-to we’d adopt ‘night routine’, with sentries set all through the hours of darkness. We’d have two men in each patrol standing watch, with the changeover times staggered, so there was always one set of eyes out on stalks. Staggering sentry changeovers also provides for continuity, so one sentry can report to the next all that has been seen.

  But as for Grant and me, it was time to head east into the brooding darkness and the unknown. Donaldson ordered us to push out in one of the Pinzgauers, in case we had to make a ‘rapid withdrawal’. We chose to take Mark ‘Marky’ Lewis and Steve B with us, a couple of solid operators whom we’d pulled in from Nathe and Dolly’s patrols.

  To my way of thinking it made little sense to send four men into the unknown with several thousand rebels massing. Right now Donaldson was ignoring one of the cardinal rules of the Pathfinders – that critical decisions are discussed and decided upon collectively, and based upon experienced-based reasoning, using the input of all the senior blokes.

  But making an open stand against Donaldson now, in front of the others, would only damage us, and at the very moment when we needed to perform at 101 per cent. We prided ourselves upon tight cohesion, trust and faith in each other, brotherhood and esprit de corps. Having made it through Selection, the aspiration of
every man was to become a patrol commander, and then make platoon sergeant. If right now they were forced to witness Sergeant Heaney ripping into their OC – that would be very bad news indeed.

  So we mounted up the Pinzgauer, pushing north, with dark walls of jungle hemming us in on either side.

  7

  Half a kilometre out from the village we pulled to a halt.

  We’d made the drive showing no lights, and navigating by the faint moonlight that filtered through to the dirt track, so as to have a greater chance of remaining unseen by any watching enemy. Our natural night vision had kicked in. We’d spotted a small, open area to one side of the track, one devoid of any vegetation. It was maybe ten feet by twenty and it formed a kind of a lay-by.

  Using that we spun the Pinz around and got the nose of the wagon pointing back down the track towards the village, in case we had to make a run for it.

  The cleared area had a bank of earth about four feet high running around it, where the bulldozers had pushed back the dirt and vegetation. Grant and me said we’d take the first stag, leaving Steve and Marky to try to get some sleep. The back of the Pinz was lined with bench seats, making it too cramped to doss in. So Steve and Marky bedded down on the dirt, lying in the lee of the earthen bank, which at least provided some cover from fire.

  On the far side was the jungle.

  It loomed before us like a dark and impenetrable cliff-face – one-hundred-foot-high forest giants, fringed with smaller palmlike bushes, tree-ferns and vines, where the dozers had torn a jagged edge through the mass of vegetation. Mature rainforest – growth that has remained undisturbed for centuries – generally consists of a high forest canopy, with little greenery on the dark forest floor. But where such virgin jungle has been disturbed – like having a highway slashed through it – secondary vegetation springs up in the sunlit clearings so formed.