The dirt highway had cut a tunnel of sunlight through the forest, and on each side of the road was a riot of greenery. While it is relatively easy to trek through mature jungle, such secondary vegetation is thick, tangled and more often than not full of horrendous thorns and spines. If the rebels hit us, it would take an age to cut through it with our machetes. In reality the only escape route was to drive hell-for-leather back the way we’d come.
With Steve and Marky bedded down on the deck, Grant and me took up a position by the rear of the wagon, weapons pointing eastwards – the direction from which we presumed the rebels would come – eyes scanning the night-dark terrain.
‘I know why I’m here,’ I muttered to Grant, not taking my gaze from my weapon’s iron sights. ‘Gets mouthy old Smoggy out of the way.’ I jerked my head in Marky and Steve’s direction. ‘But why are those two here, plus you?’
Grant shook his head imperceptibly, eyes showing white in the darkness. ‘I’ve no idea. None, mate.’
We were keeping our voices low, partly in case any rebels were within hearing distance, but partly so we wouldn’t be overheard by Marky and Steve. We didn’t want our doubts and apprehension cascading down to the blokes. They had to believe the links in the chain of command were strong, although none of the guys were stupid. They would know there were tensions.
I tightened my grip on my weapon. ‘You know, this doesn’t make any sense … Sending the four of us out here …’
‘Mate, don’t I know it,’ Grant cut in. ‘But right now there’s not a lot we can do about it.’
Having talked it over some more, we agreed that the only thing to do was for Grant and the senior NCOs – me, Wag, The White Rabbit – to go direct to Colonel Gibson if this continued. And with Gibbo a whole world away back at Lungi Airport, we were pretty much stuck with things as they were right now.
It was far from perfect, but what other options were there?
The night proved warm and sticky, with a lot of ambient light from the moon and stars. It meant our view northeast up the road was pretty good, without having to use any NVG. No one could make much progress through the jungle or down the road without making considerable noise, so we’d most likely hear ’em before we’d see ’em.
Or so we hoped.
If they skirted by us undetected in the deep jungle, they could get between our position and the village, at which stage we were toast. We’d be surrounded by rebels on all sides. We’d be killed or captured – and if the latter, presumably we’d be offered amputations, ‘long-sleeve’ or ‘short-sleeve’ style. Or maybe something even worse. But there was sod all we could do about that now – four blokes set a half a klick out from any support.
We focused our every molecule on our senses – chiefly hearing and sight – our early warning systems. The key to survival here was watchfulness in every sense of the word, and tuning in to the natural environment. Once we’d familiarised ourselves with the regular beat and rhythm of the jungle, we could filter out those sounds and scan for ones only a human might make: the crunch of boots on leaves; whispered voices; the clatch-clatch of a bolt being pulled back on an assault rifle.
It was like a form of meditation, this tuning in to the night environment. I opened up my mind and senses to any changes in the setting here, and I was hyper-alert to any sense of threat. If my ears caught the faintest sound – anything distinct from the deafening night-time beat pulsating out of the forest shadows – my eyes immediately swivelled around to focus on that point.
We had with us one Clansman 349 VHF radio, which was set to ‘listening watch’. This meant we had an open line of comms to Tricky, back in the HQ ATAP, and we’d keep it live all night long. That way he would hear if we were under attack the moment it happened. We’d only speak to him if we had to – if there was something vital to report – and vice versa.
All that night the tension rippled back and forth, as we sensed movement out there in the darkness. Every noise from the brooding bush sent my pulse racing. I’d soldiered in many of the world’s jungles but this was something different. We were four against several thousand, and we stood out like the proverbial dog’s bollocks with the wagon parked on the dirt roadway.
First light was about the most welcome sight that any of us had ever seen. Imperceptibly the jungle brightened, and I felt the tension of the long night’s watch draining out of me.
Almost as the first rays of sunlight filtered over the horizon, Tricky came up on the air. ‘33, Zero. Move back into village.’
Zero was the OC’s call-sign, 33 was us.
‘Roger, out.’
Never has a short drive down a dirt track been so enjoyable as that one back into Lungi Lol.
We parked the Pinz on the village square and made our way to the HQ ATAP, leaving Marky and Steve to head back to their patrols. We’d been out there for nine hours straight and I’d managed four hours’ fitful sleep, lying in full belt kit on the dirt with my weapon only ever a hand’s reach away. With the constant buzzing of the mozzies that were feeding on me, plus the tension, I’d never really been fully asleep. There was always an edge of wakefulness.
After stand-to we got a brew on, tucking into some ration packs over a nice cup of tea. All around us I could hear the village starting to come to life. None of the patrols had much to report, our first night in Lungi Lol being seemingly a quiet one.
Around 0800 hours Donaldson gathered the head-shed. ‘Right, I’m heading back to Lungi Airport,’ he announced. ‘I need to speak to the CO. I’ll need a driver, so I’m taking Marky with me.’
Utter silence.
No one said the barest thing in response. This was so totally and utterly unexpected we were at a complete loss for words. The OC radioed for Marky to join him, and the two of them made their way across to one of the Pinzgauers. With barely another word they mounted up the vehicle and drove west out of Lungi Lol.
The four of us in the HQ ATAP – Grant, Tricky, Wag and me – were stunned. It was as if we were all waiting to see who was going to be the first to break the silence and say something.
It was Wag. ‘What – the – fuuuuck?’ he asked, incredulously.
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Mate, I have no idea.’
‘But what the fuck is that all about? Tricky – has he said anything to anyone on the comms?’
Tricky shook his head. ‘Nope. Not said a word all night long.’
There weren’t the words to express how we were feeling right now. We were utterly dumbfounded. The ramifications of this were unknowable. Was Donaldson gone for good, or just paying Gibbo a temporary call? Did command now pass to Grant, or not? Was Grant now Sunray, the OC Pathfinders’ call-sign? Or was Donaldson somehow still in command – just that he wasn’t with us any more?
Who fucking knows?
Why did Donaldson need to speak to the CO in person anyway, instead of via the radio? No one had the faintest idea. Equally importantly, would they even make it? They had several dozen kilometres of uncharted territory to get through, with no known friendly forces between us and Lungi Airport. Plus we were left with just the one vehicle in Lungi Lol, which greatly lessened our ability to escape and evade via the wagons, for one Pinz could carry no more than a dozen men.
We took stock. We had another thirty-six hours max of the mission ahead of us, and we were determined to make the best of it. We decided to use the time well. First off, we’d get the patrols to build up their defences still further. Wag and I got them busy doing that, then we went to have a further chat with Lieutenant Mojo, to try to get a better sense of whether his men might be of any use to us in a fight with the rebels.
Just to the south of the HQ ATAP Mojo had his own quarters, encircled by a palisade of wood driven into the ground. We’d yet to see inside, for the fence was ten feet high and blocked all view. It was around 0900 hours when we knocked on the small wooden door. Mojo appeared dressed as immaculately as he had been on day one, and gestured for us to join him.
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��Please – this is where I live.’
We poked our heads inside. Immediately to our front was a large hut, one made out of a wooden frame plastered in mud and with a grass-thatch roof. To the right was the weirdest sight of all – a rickety post, with the distinctive light blue flag of the United Nations hanging limply. The palisade was so high and the flagpole so low that you couldn’t actually see the flag from outside. But what struck me most powerfully was what was lacking from the place: I couldn’t see a single radio antenna, no sign of any radio, nor any solar panels with which to charge one.
It looked as if Mojo and his men had no way of making comms back to UN headquarters, that’s presuming the UN had such a thing. They had no way to receive orders, Intel updates, schedule resupplies or to get relieved, and no way to call up reinforcements when several thousand rebels came charging down their throats. In the circumstances, going native – as Mojo’s men had done – seemed about the smartest option in terms of trying to stay alive.
Having been shown around the Kingdom of Mojo, it struck me that the lieutenant mightn’t even know that a battalion of British PARAs – plus elite forces – had jetted into the country. We invited him over to our place for a brew and a chat. It quickly became clear that Mojo had not the slightest idea about pretty much anything: he had no idea that the British military had intervened in the war, occupying Lungi Airport and most of Freetown. He’d presumed we were British soldiers somehow working with the UN, as fellow peacekeepers.
He knew of the RUF’s existence, but he had zero idea of their proximity, or that they were massing to assault Lungi Airport and Freetown – so aiming to usher in another dark chapter of murder and mayhem across the country. In fact he had absolutely no idea of the kind of danger he and his men were in – largely because he had no way of making contact with, or getting updates from, the UN.
Incredible.
Grant proceeded to enlighten him. ‘Lieutenant, you need to know that there is an imminent threat and that this village is in danger. There are several thousand RUF advancing on Freetown and the only way they can get there is via here. Right now they could be any distance away – from a few dozen kilometres to spitting-distance close. The updates we’re getting are that they’re on the move, and we thought we were flying into a hot LZ.’
Lieutenant Mojo looked suitably taken aback. He’d had six months of a peaceful posting, without the slightest hint that the villagers of Lungi Lol were about to get butchered, along with all of his men.
‘Ours is only a forty-eight-hour tasking,’ Grant continued. ‘We envisage we will be gone in two days maximum. We’re here as a blocking force, to provide security while we evacuate our nationals from Lungi Airport. But while we’re here we’ll assist you with your mandate, which I presume is securing the village.’
Mojo gave a confused shake of the head. ‘I had heard reports of villages getting attacked, of women being raped and of villagers being put to work by the rebels – but this was all upcountry and a very long way away. If the rebels are poised to take Freetown that means the UN operation here … well, it has been a very big failure.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Grant replied. ‘It’s not our concern. You’re the UN and you have your roles and responsibilities. Our tasking is to ensure that the ongoing evacuation of civilians from Freetown goes ahead unhindered. We are not – repeat not – a peacekeeping force. We will use lethal force if fired upon or if the need arises. Do you understand the difference between us?’
Mojo glanced at Grant. ‘I do. But it doesn’t seem as if there is much peace to keep any more.’ He paused, then fixed Grant with this earnest look. ‘If things are as serious as you say, you need to meet the village chief. Let me take you to him. He needs to know this.’
We figured this was a smart idea. The more local connections we could forge here in Lungi Lol, the more Intel we might garner.
Mojo led the way to the village square. It was around 1030 by now and the marketplace was getting busy. People were milling about carrying baskets of mangoes and trays of tomatoes and bicycles were criss-crossing to and fro. There was even the odd guy on a moped pootling about. To one side of the square lay a larger building raised up three feet or so on wooden stilts. Its walls were made from a woven latticework of branches plastered with mud, and it had the obligatory grass-thatch roof. Six wooden steps led up to a veranda that ran along the front of the building, plus a wooden door.
To the left of the door sat an old, balding, wiry-looking man on a straight-backed wooden chair. His poise and bearing marked him out as a man of substance. The chair faced onto the village square, plus the T-junction. From this vantage point he could observe all who passed through his domain. To the right of the door was a younger dude – clearly the village chief’s lackey.
It struck me as odd that the chief hadn’t been over to see us yet, to ask what we were doing in his village. But we’d learn with time that the chief never stirred from his chair. Everyone went to him. People came to ask a favour, or to air a grievance, or to sort a feud, whatever.
Grant, Wag, Mojo and me gathered at the bottom of the steps, with Mojo slightly in the lead. He began to address the chief, speaking some language that we couldn’t understand. I caught the odd English word, but otherwise it was gibberish. We’d learn in time that this was Pidgin English, a blend of English mixed with Creole – a West African dialect dating back to the times of slavery.
The chat went on for a good few minutes, Mojo doing the talking and the chief listening. I saw him gesture at the three of us, as he gabbled away. Every now and then the chief would glance at his lackey, the lackey would say a few words, and then the chief would nod for Mojo to continue.
I gave chiefy a good long study. I figured he was around seventy-five years old and thinning on top, with wispy hair flecked with grey. He was lighter-skinned than Mojo and several of his yellowing teeth were missing. An all-in-one robe fell from his shoulders to his feet, which were shod in worn leather sandals. In his right hand he had a lighted cigarette and every now and then he took a drag.
We were doing our best to be culturally sensitive – hearts and minds stuff and all that – but still Wag couldn’t resist making the odd comment.
‘What d’you reckon he’s saying now?’ he muttered, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Let’s kill ’em all?’
Mojo still had his massive Foster Grant shades on – in fact I’d never seen him without them – but his tone and attitude was now one of total respect. When the chief raised his hand in a gesture for silence Mojo shut it immediately, leaving the big man free to talk. The chief said a few words, his eyes flickering from Mojo to us and back again, and Mojo translated.
‘Okay, he says he is happy that you are here. He welcomes you on behalf of the village. He says if you need anything while you are here you must come to him. He is very glad you have come.’ Mojo paused. ‘So, he would like you to introduce yourselves.’
Grant glanced at the veranda. ‘Hi, I’m Grant.’
Mojo: ‘Grant!’
I was trying not to crack up. ‘Right, I’m Steve.’
Mojo: ‘And Steve!’
‘Aye, and I’m Wag,’ said Wag.
Mojo did a double take: ‘Wag?’ he queried, in a high-pitched voice of surprise.
‘Mate, just this once how about being Graham?’ I muttered.
Wag glared at Mojo. He was crouched there like a Hobbit, his weapon in one hand and his torso wrapped in bandoliers of ammo. Correction. Right now he didn’t remind me so much of a Hobbit, as of Gimli the Dwarf in The Lord of the Rings.
Wag scowled. ‘Not Wag like that,’ he said, mimicking Mojo’s high-pitched whine. ‘It’s Wag,’ he growled. ‘Wag.’
Mojo turned to the chief and shrugged: ‘And … Wag.’
The chief nodded gravely. Introductions done, Mojo chatted some more, then turned to us. ‘Okay, so we’re done. Let’s go.’
On the way back to HQ ATAP Mojo told us it had all gone very well. ‘Any assistance the
chief can give – anything – just let me know.’
‘We’re fine for the time being,’ Grant replied. ‘We’ve got the men on the ground and the patrols are well bedded in.’
‘How many of you are there?’ Mojo asked.
‘Twenty-seven.’
Mojo stopped dead in his tracks: ‘Twenty-seven?’
We’d spent all morning warning him about the danger of getting massacred by thousands of rebels. I guessed he’d imagined several hundred British troops had thrown a wall of steel around Lungi Lol. Now we’d revealed our true numbers – twenty-seven. Correction: twenty-five with Marky and Donaldson gone.
Mojo hurried off towards the Kingdom of Mojo looking decidedly worried. We turned left to where Tricky was hunched over the radio. Right now he had a bunch of kids crowded around him. Our ration packs contained bags of boiled sweets, and Tricky had started doling them out to the boys and girls of Lungi Lol. Each time he handed some out a kid would start cavorting about and yelling for joy. Yippeee! Compared to back home in Britain these poor little sods had next to nothing, and the looks on their faces would have melted the hardest of hearts.
‘So, how did it go with the chief?’ Tricky asked.
‘Yeah, we just met The King,’ Wag replied. ‘He never said a lot. Happy for us to be here … yada, yada, yada.’
Tricky grinned. ‘I’ve just sent the morning Sched. Told ’em we are on the ground with nothing to report on rebel movements … so far.’
It was a good three hours since Donaldson had left us, so unless he and Marky had been hit en route and were lying dead in a ditch they would be back at Lungi Airport by now. I checked with Tricky if he’d had any news, but there was none. There was bugger all we could do about it, so we settled down to priority number one – stopping the RUF at Lungi Lol.
Grant, Wag and me got our heads together, talking through how best to cement our positions. First priority was to map the ground over which we would be fighting. That done, we could hone our defences to better suit the threat. We’d need to ensure each patrol knew its left and right arcs of fire, beyond which they shouldn’t put down any rounds – for they’d be straying into the neighbouring patrol’s domain. That way, we’d have interlocking arcs of fire covering all potential avenues of approach.
Operation Mayhem Page 10
