Operation Mayhem

by Steve Heaney MC

  ‘Fuck it – what now?’ he kept muttering. He paused for a second, then looked at me. ‘Right, you seen the fucking I-man anywhere?’

  ‘Nah, mate, I’ve not seen him. But he’ll be about, won’t he?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go find him.’

  Wag shrugged on his belt kit and off we went. Generally, if you walked up and down Lungi Lol’s main drag a couple of times you’d find just about anyone. Sure enough we spotted Ibrahim, still in his green shirt and flowery sarong, pottering about on one of the pathways just off the track.

  Wag marched over. ‘Ibrahim, mate, we need a hammer and nails. Bash, bash. Nails. Pointy object.’

  For a few moments Ibrahim stared at Wag uncomprehendingly, before he finally seemed to get the idea. ‘I fetch! I fetch!’ With that he was gone.

  We returned to the HQ ATAP and a few minutes later Ibrahim appeared. In one hand was a rusty-headed hammer with a wooden handle and in the other was an assortment of fifty different bent and blunted nails.

  ‘I have! I have!’ he announced, excitedly.

  Wag held out his hands. ‘Right, okay, give us them here then.’

  Wag hurried off towards his woodland gym, tools in hand. I followed, telling Ibrahim that he’d better come with us.

  We found Wag surveying his enterprise. He bent to pick up the bar, with the weights, hammer and nails balanced in his free hand.

  From behind me Ibrahim came barging through. ‘You want this fix here?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Wag nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Ibrahim gestured at the hammer and nails. ‘Give me, give me.’

  A little reluctantly Wag handed them over. Ibrahim hammered away for a few seconds and the lump of wood was attached to the bar. Wag told him we needed another lump on the far end the same size. Within minutes Ibrahim had found one, made a few alterations with his trusted machete, and hammered it on. We now had a bar with a lump of wood nailed to each end, ready for use.

  We hefted it between us. I figured it had to weigh a good forty pounds. It was clear the I-man didn’t have the slightest idea what we were up to here. He most likely figured we were building some kind of cunning trap akin to the punjis.

  ‘You want me to give it a try?’ I asked Wag.

  ‘Yeah. Go on. Go on.’

  I took off my webbing, laid my weapon on top to keep it out of the dirt, then lay on the bench. I could hear it creaking and groaning horribly under my weight. No doubt about it – this was not a genuine Ibrahim. It was a cheap Western copy. Wag was stood over me staring into my face, the weights bar between us.

  I reached up for the bar. ‘Fuck it – in for a penny, in for a pound.’

  I was looking up Wag’s nostrils as he leant over, preparing to help me lift it.

  My fingers closed around the bar. ‘Mate, you’d better get ready to catch it if it snaps.’

  ‘Fucking get on with it.’

  I eased it off, so I had it held above my head, and started to bench press. After half a dozen pushes, I said: ‘Here, mate, grab a hold.’

  Wag took the weight and put it back on the rests.

  I sat up facing Ibrahim. He had his machete dangling from his hand and was staring at us in total disbelief. He started doing these slow, silent shakes of his head. They just kept coming. He did one final shake – the white men have finally lost it! – then turned around and left.

  From behind me Wag said: ‘Here, let’s have a go.’

  We reversed the procedure, the bench creaking and grinding but somehow holding fast under Wag’s bulk, and that was it – gym sorted. We returned to the HQ ATAP, got a brew on and told Tricky and Grant all about what had happened.

  Wag’s gym had to be worth it just for the laughs we got out of it. It was impossible to remain laser sharp and focused if all you ever did was stare down the barrel of an SA80 into a wall of jungle. After a while you’d go stir crazy. I added to the list of desirables that we’d radio through to The White Rabbit some alternative fresh food – as opposed to giant African snails – so Nathe and the other masterchefs amongst us could keep themselves busy.

  A local cycled through the village with one bloke perched on his battered handlebars and another on the seat behind him, while he himself was standing on the pedals. Three on a bike – it was like Billy Smart’s Circus. A call was made for everyone to be eyes-left and have a good laugh. Anything to break the routine. And as it happened, our biggest ever routine-breaker was just about to emerge from the jungle to the south of the village.

  It was around lunchtime when a white Lada taxi puttered into Lungi Lol from the direction of Freetown. We were sat in our depression finishing off our brews, and Tricky was the first to spot it.

  ‘What – the fuck – is that?’

  Wag glanced over. ‘It’s a white Lada taxi.’

  We stared at it. We’d had practically no vehicular traffic through Lungi Lol, and certainly no taxis pottering out from the nation’s capital. It came crawling along the road towards us, as if the driver was highly unsure of where he was going. Once opposite the chief’s place it slowed to a snail’s pace, then pulled to a halt beside our Pinzgauer.

  The back door swung open. I watched in disbelief as a tall, sandy-haired fellow emerged from the rear. He was dressed in neat chinos and a crisp white shirt, and he had a camera slung around his neck.

  He stood by the Lada and practically sniffed the air – as if he was saying; I say, anyone here speak the Queen’s English? He held onto the car door with one hand and peered all about. Unless you knew exactly where we were positioned you’d never be able to see us.

  ‘Better go see who it is,’ I announced. ‘Grant, you coming?’

  We rose as one and went to investigate. The moment the stranger spotted us emerging from the bush, his face broke into an expression of sheer unadulterated joy. It was like all his Christmases had come at once: the taxi driver hasn’t screwed me; I am not about to get kidnapped, tortured, buggered… and ransomed for a million dollars.

  He bent down, reached inside the Lada, pulled out a daysack and slung it over his shoulder. By the time he’d done that we were pretty much on him. Neither of us had the slightest idea who this might be, except for one thing: he was a prize-winning A1 lunatic.

  ‘Ah, I am in the right place then!’ he announced, as an opener.

  I stared at him. ‘That depends what you’re looking for.’

  He shut the door, stepped towards us with real purpose and introduced himself as a reporter for a major newspaper.

  I put out my hand. ‘Steve. And this is Grant.’ ‘Ah. Steve and Grant. So, are you guys 1 PARA?’ ‘No.’

  ‘Are you SAS?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘We’re Pathfinders.’

  ‘Great,’ he enthused. ‘Great. Great. Pathfinders.’

  We were stood at the front of the Lada taxi, and we were still none the wiser as to who this guy was or what he was doing here.

  ‘Sorry, but you do know where you are, don’t you? Where you’re coming from … Where you’re going to … What planet you’re on …’

  ‘Ah, erm, I was trying to find the furthermost British position, actually.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Well, mate, you’re standing on it.’

  ‘Great. Great. Am I? Superb.’

  When anyone has done anything completely and utterly insane, a phrase comes into my head: When God gave out heads, you thought he said ‘beds’ and said I’ll have a big soft one ... That was exactly what I was thinking now. What on earth was this crazed loon doing here, alone and unarmed and riding in a Lada taxi cab?

  ‘Oh, erm, it would be great to get an interview with you guys and some pictures.’

  Grant and I exchanged glances. ‘Okay, you’d best come with us.’

  We led him in silence down the track and through the bush towards the HQ ATAP. We threaded between some trees, to where Wag and Tricky were draining the last of their brews. Our surprise guest laid eyes
on them, kind of jumped backwards a step and stared.

  ‘Urgh … Ah! There are more of you!’

  Tricky being the brewmaster had a giant metal mug perched on the hexy stove between his legs. Both he and Wag were a week into Lungi Lol, and neither had had a wash or a shave in that time. They – like Grant and me – were stinking. Our mystery guest stared at them for a long second, before running his eyes around the position. His gaze came to rest on the I-beds.

  He glanced up at Grant and me in disbelief. ‘Erm … How long … How long have you guys been here?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Really.’

  ‘So, how many of you are there?’

  Grant gave me this look: Mate, time to read him the riot act.

  ‘Look, we cannot stop you from having access to this village,’ I told him. ‘You are free to walk around. In fact, I’ll take you around. But we’re going to have to place some restrictions on you, and agree some ground rules, okay?’

  ‘Right. Right. Okay, fine.’

  ‘Okay, so, we’ll let you speak to people and show you around the village. But no photos of the blokes, and especially no facial shots. No photos of defensive positions, and no talk about our strengths, weaponry or numbers. Agreed?’

  ‘Yep. Fine. Understood. Got it.’

  Tricky had finished brewing up. He held out the battered, dirty, gungy mug to our visitor. ‘Brew?’

  The journalist stared at it. ‘No, erm, thanks – I’m fine.’

  He removed his daysack from his shoulders, bent down, unzipped it and pulled out a ring-bound reporter’s notebook. As he did so I spotted what looked like a satphone in the depths of his pack.

  ‘Is that a satphone?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘It is.’

  I smiled. ‘I do for you, you do for me.’

  He looked a bit confused. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We’ll give you full access to the village bar the restrictions already stated, if you let me have use of that phone while you’re here. You know – calls home.’

  ‘Calls home?’

  ‘Yeah – let the married guys have five mins each to speak to their wives. They’ve not spoken to them for nigh-on ten days.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Deal.’

  I turned to Tricky. ‘Mate, take the satphone, cut around the married guys, five mins each on the blower. Do it.’

  Tricky grabbed the phone and set off towards Dolly’s position going like the clappers.

  ‘Wag, go lend Tricky a hand, will you?’ I added.

  Wag grunted an acknowledgement and set off after him. I figured it made sense to keep Gimli the Dwarf and the press as far apart as possible.

  We had our own satphone, of course, courtesy of The White Rabbit, but its purpose was strictly military.

  I gestured towards the patch of trees to our front right. ‘Okay, let’s start the tour.’

  He set off after me, daypack on his back and notebook in hand, with Grant bringing up the rear. We threaded through the trees, Wag’s gym lying ten feet off our line of march. I pressed on, but behind me I sensed our guest come to an abrupt halt. He was staring at the makeshift weight bench and dumbbells.

  He pointed. ‘Erm … what’s that?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, we’ve just finished it. It’s a gym.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a gym.’

  ‘A gym?’ Pause. ‘You’ve made a gym.’

  ‘Yeah, Wag and me made it this morning.’

  He kept glancing at the gym, back at me, then back at the gym again, as if waiting for some kind of a sensible, credible explanation.

  ‘Well, we’ve been here a week and we were getting lazy …’

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘You know, big arms for the summer, mate.’

  ‘Big arms for the summer,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Oh yeah … Working out. Ho, ho.’

  I waved him on. ‘Come on, come on. Lots to see.’

  I walked on, glancing behind me to check on him. He wasn’t looking where he was going any more. Instead, he was sketching out Wag’s gym in his notebook. From there to Nathe’s position was sixty-odd metres, and the journalist was busy drawing and scribbling away the entire distance.

  I spotted Nathe up ahead of us. He was in his regular pose – seated, with his arms resting on his knees and bent over the dirty cauldron, which was three feet in front of him, steaming away. Gripped between his knees he had a tree stump, and in his hands he had a big, very sharp-looking knife.

  ‘All right, Nathe?’ I called out.

  He glanced up. ‘Yeah, all right, mate.’

  Then he was back to his chopping.

  On the block he had a new one on me – a massive, black-topped mushroom. The rain had brought the fungi out big time, but I hadn’t quite realised that Nathe had moved on to snail and mushroom baltis by now. He sliced the stem off, leaving a cap about the size of his hand. It was spongy underneath, not gilled, and glistening like a fresh cowpat. Nathe started slicing chunks off it and tossing them into the pot.

  Presumably, snails alone had proved a tad too bland, so Nathe had decided to add some local flora. This didn’t surprise me in the least: this was Nathe. Likely as not the boy from his trench gang had suggested that the giant black fungi with fluffy white edges were particularly tasty, so in the pot they went.

  I figured Nathe would have done all the usual edibility tests. The first is the allergic reaction test. You rub the fungi or flora on an exposed part of your skin – say the back of your hand. Then you wait fifteen minutes to see if you get any kind of adverse reaction – like a rash, lumpiness, redness or itching – which might indicate it was toxic. No reaction seen, you break off a small piece and place it on your tongue, then spit it out. You wait fifteen minutes and if you experience no bad reaction you move on to stage three: breaking off another piece and eating it. You’d have to wait a full hour to see if you had any stomach pains, cramps or vomiting. If you had none of those, you could be pretty sure it was safe to eat, and cooking it would generally add another layer of safety.

  I came to a halt beside Nathe, quietly relishing what was coming. The journalist was closing fast, head down writing. Nathe finished the mushroom, grabbed himself a freshly deshelled snail, and nailed it on the chopping block. He was living the village good life, and it was close to his lunchtime.

  I spoke to the top of his head. ‘Nathe, there’s this British journalist who has pitched up. He wants to talk to the blokes.’

  Nathe didn’t even pause the slicing. ‘Yeah, all right, mate.’

  The reporter walked in still scribbling away, and an instant later he’d all but kicked over Nathe’s cooking pot. He dragged his notebook to one side, finally got a look at what was in front of him, and jumped backwards.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Nathe glanced up at him. ‘Hey, mind the pot.’

  The journalist shook his head in consternation. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  He took a couple more steps backwards. He stared at the concoction that he’d very nearly kicked over. It was bubbling away and hissing like the world’s most evil brew. Nathe meanwhile was back to his task, tossing glistening chunks of sliced mollusc into the cauldron.

  ‘What – is – that?’ he finally managed to choke out, his voice like a strangled whisper.

  I guessed to him deshelled giant African snail probably looked a bit like sliced child’s brain …

  Nathe didn’t miss a beat. ‘Lunch. D’you want some?’

  He visibly blanched. ‘Erm … Erm … Erm … I think I’ll pass.’

  I was massively intrigued about what exactly Nathe had in there. ‘Let’s have a try, then, Nathe.’

  I retrieved my spoon from the side pouch of my webbing. It was a massive metal one – a classic ‘yaffling iron’ as we call them. Normally, you cook in pairs, so the bigger the spoon the more you’re able to get down you. I bent, scooped, and managed to land a lump of glisten
ing flesh, a chunk of brown stuff that looked like … tree bark, plus a slice of what I figured was fungus, all of which swimming around in a thick black gravy. I raised the yaffling iron and in it went.

  It tasted particularly salty.

  I smacked my lips. ‘Mate, well done. A bit chewy. A bit too much seasoning. But not bad.’

  The journalist was rooted to the spot. I could hear him almost retching, as he stared at Nathan and me in revulsion and horror.

  I replaced my yaffling iron. ‘Okay, if you’re not feeling hungry best go speak to the blokes.’

  ‘Great … The blokes,’ he mumbled. ‘Not particularly peckish … Great, great, thank you.’

  I backed off to let him through, without him having to pass too close to the cauldron, and he hurried off in the direction of the battle trenches.

  He passed by 33 Alpha’s I-beds as he went, giving them a good long stare. By now he was convinced we had gone 100 per cent native – Nathe’s Lungi Lol balti being the coup de grace. I presumed he’d been flown in by 1 PARA to report on the conflict, so he would have come through Lungi Airport – which would be a place of shower blocks, mess tents, and clean-shaven smart young soldiers by now. From there he’d arrived at … this. We were like Kurtz and his band of renegades in Apocalypse Now – eating whatever we could scavenge in the jungle … Clearly, if we hadn’t already started, cannibalism was only a short step away.

  We left him free to chat to the blokes. He asked them all the usual kinds of question: What’s life like here? How are you coping? What have you seen of rebel activity? How are the villagers? When do you expect an attack? He was very respectful of the reporting restrictions I’d placed upon him. I guessed he feared he might be for the cooking pot himself if he stepped out of line.

  It was in Kosovo that I’d first come across the media and begun to appreciate their hunger for the story. I’d also witnessed the insane risks individual journalists took to get it. They’d push themselves into situations of enormous danger. But this guy – he was out on a limb as never before. If he hadn’t spotted the Pinz, God knows where he would have ended up, or in whose hands. We were twenty-six elite operators trained to survive in the jungle, and packing some real firepower: he was one guy with a camera in a white Lada taxi cab.