Operation Mayhem

by Steve Heaney MC

  There was no way we could target any rebels massing in the tree line – the fringe of jungle that hemmed in the village on all sides. It was too dark and vegetated to see clearly, and that meant we only had a limited amount of open ground in which to stop them. That in turn meant that we’d have to make every shot count once the rebels were in the kill zone.

  We got Dolly, Nathe, Ginge and Taff to draw up detailed sketches of the terrain within each of their patrols’ arcs of fire. Any landmarks or reference points – a burned tree stump, a distinctive termite mound – were marked up. That way, fire could be called in instantly: ‘Bring to bear, twenty yards right of burned tree!’ Everyone in the patrol would know exactly where the enemy was.

  Range cards were put together, on which we measured out the distance to each marked point. Below 100 yards the trajectory of fire isn’t affected by wind or distance, but above that it is. With the range cards, we’d know exactly when to compensate and by how much: we’d automatically aim off the correct fraction for wind speed and distance. Finally, a ‘dead ground’ study was added to the mix – identifying areas that were hidden from view and from fire, where the enemy could go to ground, regroup and attack.

  Those areas were shaded on the sketches, with the entry and exit points identified and named. Fire could then be called instantly onto any of those points. The GPMGs were repositioned to cover the dead ground, while the SA8os would be used to hit individual targets in the open. This was all about increasing the accuracy and intensity of the fire we could bring to bear.

  In spite of our mega-blag with Mick back at the Lungi Airport weapons dump, Wag and me were painfully aware of our limited supplies of ammo: there would be no ‘fire for effect’ on this mission. So at its simplest, this was also about ensuring that every bullet found a target.

  When the rebels hit us we needed to make sure one shot equalled one kill.

  8

  We figured we also needed to up our profile and our visibility with the locals. All morning we’d had people moving along the main highway into and out of the village – presumably traders, family visitors, farmers, whatever. Everyone stopped to stare at these strange white soldiers who’d occupied Lungi Lol. But it was clear as day that any number of them could have been rebels posing as villagers.

  The rebels might be recceing our positions, or even infiltrating the village so they could hit us from the rear. Their ranks were made up of scores of child soldiers, so in theory even the kids could be the bad guys. We knew they had used villagers as human shields – forcing them to march in front of their fighters – in previous battles. We had to presume they were pretty much capable of anything, and if they were getting in amongst us undetected it wasn’t good news.

  As a priority we needed to push out roving foot patrols to keep a watch on the comings and goings, and to establish stop and search checkpoints. The more we could get the patrols on the move the more ground truth we’d garner, plus the harder it would be for any of the bad guys to figure out our exact positions or our numbers.

  That afternoon Wag and me did a walkabout to check on the patrols. It was the hottest part of the day by now, and out from under the tree cover the sun was merciless. We headed first for Dolly’s position – 33 Bravo – on our left flank. By the time we had reached the shade of the thick bush we were soaked with sweat. I had beads of it dripping off the rim of my jungle hat in a constant stream.

  What made matters worse was that we’d been issued with just the one litre of drinking water per man per day. As with ammo, weaponry, maps, anti-malarials and so much else, someone had forgotten to add water to the list of supplies we might need in Sierra Leone. While we had the kit to filter and purify water, the village appeared to be totally dry. We figured they’d built it on a patch of the highest land available, so that it didn’t flood too badly during the rains. But that meant there wasn’t a ready supply of water anywhere nearby.

  Ideally, we needed to drink several litres per day, to keep properly hydrated. Dehydration causes listlessness and the lack of ability to focus. Right now we’d not had a single shot fired at us or seen the slightest sign of any rebels, and village life seemed to be proceeding pretty much as normal. We needed to get around the blokes and reinforce the need for watchfulness.

  The threat was very real: we just didn’t know when or where exactly they’d hit us. We needed heightened alertness, measured with sustainability. The blokes couldn’t be staring down their rifles all day long or they’d go stir crazy. We needed to balance getting good rest, eating properly and trying to keep actions to a minimum during the heat of the day, with a permanent readiness to do battle. That was the message we spread around the patrols.

  The plan in the case of an overwhelming assault was to hold the village for as long as possible. We agreed three trigger points for us to go on the run. The first was taking unsustainable casualties (i.e. more than we could evacuate). The second was facing the serious danger of being overrun. The third was when two-thirds of our ammo had been exhausted. If that stage was reached we’d be left with around a hundred rounds per man with which to do a fighting withdrawal.

  It was late afternoon by the time Wag and me were back at the HQ ATAP. Mojo must have had a word with his blokes, for several of them had pitched up, dressed in a hodgepodge of mixed combats, T-shirts and sarongs. In contrast to their leader’s parade-ground perfection, these guys were tatty and unkempt, and their weapons looked similarly ill-maintained. They carried Belgian-made FN assault rifles, but one look at them and I doubted if they would be much use in battle.

  Wag was obviously thinking along the same lines. He approached one of them, feigning interest in his weapon, as if he’d never seen the likes of it before. In reality Pathfinders are trained to use just about every kind of small arms invented, in case we have to disarm the bad guys, or scavenge their weaponry and ammo when in a situation like the one we were in now.

  ‘What kind of gun is that, then, mate?’ Wag asked. I wondered if the Nigerian would understand his thick Burnley accent. ‘Can I have a look at it then, mate?’

  The Nigerian handed it across. The FN looks like the old British Army self-loading rifle (SLR). It has a fully-automatic function and packs a 7.62 mm round. Wag removed the magazine, unloaded the weapon, cocked it and got a good look at the working parts. Simply by listening to the action as he moved it back and forth, he’d be able to tell if it was smooth and well-oiled, or stiff and gravelly.

  ‘Oh yeah, this is a nice weapon, like,’ Wag remarked. He turned it around as if admiring it, before replacing the magazine. ‘Is it yours like? All yours?’

  The Nigerian smiled proudly as he took back his weapon. It was his all right, and by the look on Wag’s face it hadn’t seen a clean or an oil in the six months the Nigerians had been here.

  ‘The mag was dented and battered,’ Wag reported, once Mojo’s men had gone. ‘Looked to be about half a dozen rounds in it, max. And did you hear the crunching of the working parts? Horrendous …’

  We could assume that if one was like that, they likely all were. If and when the rebels hit us, we’d not be relying on Mojo’s men for back-up, that was for sure.

  Prior to last light Tricky radioed through the second Sched of the day. We got a surprise message from The White Rabbit in return: ‘Sunray will not be returning to your location. Repeat: Sunray will not be returning to your location. There will be a re-supply tomorrow morning: send HLS grid.’

  Sunray was the code-name for Donaldson. As no further information was provided, no one had a clue what had happened. But we could make a good guess about how Donaldson’s surprise reappearance would have gone down with Colonel Gibson. In any case, he was gone and we had a job to get on with here.

  During that afternoon’s walkabout we’d realised there was a far better HLS – helicopter landing site – than the one we’d flown in on. Due west of Taff’s position was a large, open, sandy bowl some seventy metres across. The surface was hard-packed like concrete, and there
was little vegetation to obstruct a landing. That was now the preferred HLS. Tricky called through its grid to The White Rabbit, and we got confirmation that a Chinook would be inbound the following morning.

  We didn’t know what the resupply flight was for exactly, as we were scheduled to be out of Lungi Lol sometime tomorrow. The White Rabbit rounded off the comms with an Intel update for us.

  ‘Information suggests significant rebel movement towards Freetown, and that it will have to come through you. Repeat: rebels moving in significant numbers and coming via your location.’

  Comms done, we took stock. We could easily have been scouted by the rebels posing as villagers during the day. Even if they hadn’t infiltrated Lungi Lol, we had to presume that word of our presence had spread like wildfire. In Lungi Lol and its environs we had to be this year’s biggest ever news.

  The rebels would know we were here. For certain.

  And now we were doubly sure that they were coming.

  We called prayers. Having passed the new Intel around to the blokes, Grant delivered the news that Donaldson was gone. He did so in as easygoing a tone as he could muster, but the looks on the patrol commanders’ faces said it all.

  Nathe gave a snort of derision ‘So where’s he fucking gone to, then …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where he’s gone,’ Grant interjected. ‘He’s gone, so let’s kill it there. Let’s get on with it.’ He paused to let the words sink in. ‘Right, night-time routine, and I don’t need to warn you about the threat level …’

  No one appeared to dwell on the OC’s departure too much, and morale seemed high. This was the ‘train hard, fight easy’ mentality: the more you drilled down into your skills, the more confident you became in your abilities. When you trained relentlessly, when you were twenty-five guys at the zenith of your abilities, then you could have total faith in those to either side of you. And you could face odds like these with steel in your eyes – not to mention losing your OC.

  With dusk came all the noises from the jungle. But tonight there seemed to be more than the normal amount of weird squeals and squawks from out of the tree line. No one had a clue what they were exactly, but we knew of the rebels’ habit of signalling to each other at night, using the calls of jungle animals.

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ Wag muttered. We’d taken the first stag. ‘Was that an animal? Doesn’t sound like any I’ve ever ‘eard of.’

  To our left people were trickling down the darkened road into the village. We spotted a crowd of a dozen or more moving steadily towards the square.

  ‘Who the hell’re that lot?’ Wag growled.

  I studied them via my NVG. ‘Can’t see any weapons. I can see a kid, plus a couple of women.’

  ‘Right, well if it’s blokes only we stop and search ’em. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  By the time Wag and I came off stag the village square was filling up. We did a short walkabout, and it turned out that more people were expected. Word had spread on two fronts: one, that the RUF were poised to launch an attack characterised by all the usual bloody murder and mayhem; two, that the British Army were in Lungi Lol to stop them. People were flooding in from all around and kipping down on the village square, for protection.

  The village chief was vetting each new family arrival, giving them permission to stay, and allocating an empty space for them to sleep. Most were women and children and they were terrified of the horrors they feared were coming. They bedded down on straw mats that they’d carried with them, with blankets thrown over families huddled together, for the added sense of security. The village square was some seventy yards wide and it was already half-full.

  It was our second night in Lungi Lol, and we were counting down the hours until our withdrawal. But in truth, no one was particularly keen to leave. Hardened from years of soldiering in Northern Ireland, where so many of the locals hate British soldiers, it felt great to be on the side of the angels for a change.

  We returned to the HQ ATAP. In addition to our sentries, our patrol had a 24/7 watch to keep over the radios. New orders, plus intelligence updates on rebel movements, might be radioed through at any time, and it was vital to keep a listening ear.

  Those of us not on watch dossed down, fully dressed in boots and belt kit and with a machete strapped to our side. A grab bag made a passable pillow, with any extra kit stuffed inside it in case of the need to go on the run.

  At the crack of dawn I got Tricky to radio Nathe’s patrols and get a couple of blokes sent to me. We then headed down there. At 0700 hours dead the distinctive form of a Chinook swooped in low over the treetops and put down in the clearing. The White Rabbit came off the open ramp, along with Marky, the guy who’d driven Donaldson out in the Pinzgauer. I ran across in a crouch to meet them.

  ‘Mate, this is open-ended now!’ The White Rabbit yelled in my ear-hole, above the deafening noise of the helo’s turbines. ‘No idea how long you’ll be here!’ He jerked his thumb towards a heap of stores lying under a cargo net in the hold. ‘Load more supplies in there – water jerries, food, anti-malarials …’

  I signalled to the guys to get unloading. Eddie and I moved away from the helo, whose rotors were still turning and burning, as the blokes started ferrying kit out from under the downwash of the thrashing blades. We got ourselves a good twenty metres away from the noise and the dust, so we could get a proper heads-up. Even so, Eddie still had to yell to make himself heard.

  ‘Steve, Donaldson’s gone. He flew out on a Herc yesterday back to the UK. He’s on a compassionate. Jacko’s been made stand-in OC Pathfinders.’

  A ‘compassionate’ is military speak for going on compassionate leave – so if you had extraordinary personal or family reasons that meant you had to get home. If Donaldson had gone on a compassionate, at least that would help make some sense out of all that had happened.

  Jacko – Mark Jackson – had been the 2iC of the Pathfinders prior to Grant taking over. He’d served under Johnny Allem, the superlative OC we’d had prior to Donaldson. He was the son of Sir Mike Jackson, the high-profile ex-commander of KFOR (Kosovo Force), the force that had liberated Kosovo in 1999. Needless to say, we were in good hands if Jacko had taken over command.

  ‘Mate, the NEO is almost done,’ Eddie continued, ‘but the op is evolving and the Intel we’re picking up indicates serious rebel movement towards your position. The CO wants you here for the duration.’

  Intel was flooding in thick and fast, Eddie explained. Largely it was from humint sources – paid informers – within the rebel ranks, but also due to our electronic warfare people having cracked the rebels’ communications, so we could listen in on their conversations. From that they figured some 2000 rebels were massing to the north of us. They were armed with small arms, rocket-propelled grenades, light machine guns, and 12.7 mm DShK heavy machine guns, plus they had captured UN armoured personnel carriers and trucks.

  ‘Make no mistake: holding this place is key to everyone’s plans,’ Eddie continued. ‘The rebels have to be stopped here, otherwise they’ll make it into Freetown and we all know what follows. The CO doesn’t have anyone else who can do the job.

  ‘Now that you’re here for the duration, the SAS lads will come through you and recce your flanks. That’s about it. Oh yeah, apart from this.’ Eddie handed me a large, bulky mobile-phone-like device. ‘We figured you might need this. We’ve got another back at base so we can do satphone-to-satphone comms, just in case the radios aren’t working.’

  Our 319 HF radios were dodgy as hell. All it generally took was a good soaking and the 319s would stop working. By contrast, the Thuraya satphone that Eddie had handed me was a bulletproof system. A purely civvie piece of kit, it was 100 per cent reliable, versatile and fast. A tenth of the size and weight of our 319s, it was also perfect for going on the run. They were like gold dust, and getting our hands on one meant the nightmare scenario of getting hit by the rebels and not being able to call in the QRF was pretty much over.

&nb
sp; Eddie and me chatted for a few seconds more as the blokes finished unloading, running through various scenarios of how the twenty-six of us lot were going to stop 2000 rebels armed to the teeth.

  He signed off with a bemused shrug. ‘Mate, fuck knows.’

  With that he turned and took a crouching run back up the Chinook’s open ramp. The loadie hopped on after him, gave the thumbs-up, and almost before the ramp started to whine shut the Chinook lifted off. They’d been on the ground for four minutes max before they were heading back towards Lungi Airport.

  The White Rabbit had flown in with three days of rations per man – all they could spare from stores. He also had a few jerry cans of fresh water. Being Pathfinders, no washing was allowed when on operations, so this was for drinking only.

  The reason you don’t wash is if you cut your face shaving you can get an infection, which in conditions like these could turn nasty very quickly. Plus our aim on a mission such as this one was to take on the look, the feel and the smell of the jungle, so as to become invisible to the enemy. If we were forced to go on the run we would be living like animals anyway, so the transition would be that much easier if we’d started it early.

  In short, we didn’t have the water to waste washing and couldn’t take the risk of doing so. The only exception to the no washing rule was teeth. The body can cope with being dirty – just. But gum disease or rotting teeth is an endex (end of exercise) issue – you’d be pulled off the mission.

  I fetched the Pinzgauer. We loaded up the supplies and drove back to the HQ position. It was the start of our third day in Lungi Lol, and we’d been in-country for six. Finally the British Army had managed to get its act together on the medical front: the resupply included some packs of Lariam, an anti-malarial pill.