Operation Mayhem

by Steve Heaney MC

  We bounced him around the patrols, but we didn’t show him the punjis or the Claymores or any of our other less orthodox Op Alamo defences. Meanwhile, Tricky and Wag were buzzing about with his satphone, getting around the married guys. They didn’t manage much in the time allotted to them: Yeah, I’m all right, love; don’t believe all you see on the news; love to the kids and I’ll see you soon. But even that was pretty special.

  I didn’t bother to call home, because the only one I had to speak to was Ben, and I figured he’d get a right arse-on when he heard about all the lovely scoff he was missing out on here in Lungi Lol.

  We managed to spin the journalist’s tour out to a good two hours, by which time Tricky gave me the thumbs-up that all the lads had got to make a call. I reminded the reporter he was at the furthest forward position of any British forces in Sierra Leone, and that he’d best be getting back to Freetown. Otherwise, we’d invite him to stay for dinner, and no guessing what was on the menu.

  At that he reclaimed his satphone, we walked him to his taxi and he got the hell out of Lungi Lol.

  14

  Bang on schedule that evening Mojo turned up with our bread delivery. He had some worrying news for us. ‘You need to come and speak to the chief. He has something important to tell you about the rebels.’

  Mojo led the way, as Grant and me went to have our audience. Just as we’d hoped, the chief had got his people out watching and listening, and he’d secured some peachy humint as a result.

  ‘People arrived here today who come from a village five kilometres northeast along the main track,’ Mojo translated. ‘They saw the rebels coming to attack their village and they ran for their lives. They came here for safety and asked for the chief’s permission to stay.’

  We asked about rebel numbers, weaponry and the like, but the answers we got were pretty sketchy. Hardly surprising, considering the villagers had been running for their lives. But at least now we knew: the rebels were 5 klicks away and closing.

  ‘Tell the chief to get as many people as he can inside the village tonight,’ I advised. ‘Spread the word that if the rebels come there will be fighting. No matter what happens he must make sure the villagers stay in their homes or under cover. If they are seen running around they could get mistaken for the bad guys and we do not want to end up shooting them by mistake.’

  Mojo translated and the chief confirmed that he understood.

  I fixed Mojo with a look. ‘We hope we can count on you and your men, mate, to respond as we’ve asked.’

  Mojo nodded. ‘Okay, yes, yes – I understand. We will help. We will help.’

  We thanked the chief, hurried back to the HQ ATAP and briefed Wag and Tricky. Tricky had just received that afternoon’s Sched, with an Intel brief that pretty much confirmed what the chief had told us: ‘Highly likely your position will face a rebel attack tonight. The force is 2000 strong.’

  Tricky called the patrol commanders in. H had been put in charge of the lone battle trench situated on the main highway, so he would be joining us. We gathered in a circle and Grant set about the briefing.

  ‘There is a very strong indication the rebels are as close as five ks out. If they are that close they may be making a move on us tonight. Priorities: ID your targets, maintain battle discipline; fire control; management of ammo. And remember, keep us informed of all that’s going on at all times, if you can.’

  ‘Right, guys, remember what we decided,’ I added. ‘The fallback plan has not changed. If you’re overrun make your way back to the fallback point. And remember, if you’re coming in – clear and loud: “We’re coming in! We’re coming in!” The radios are shite and we can’t rely on them in a firefight: I will not be listening to them. So, shout like fuck. Make doubly sure weapons are prepped and ready.’

  I finished with this. ‘Right – this is it. Showtime.’

  ‘Fucking let ’em come,’ Nathe grunted. ‘About time.’

  H: ‘Yeah. Pissed off waiting.’

  Dolly: ‘Yep, no problem – let ’em come.’

  Ginge and Taff confirmed they were likewise ready.

  To our left we were aware of this massive influx of people. As we’d talked, silent crowds of mainly women and children had been moving in towards the village square. Somehow, their silence was oppressive. It spoke volumes. They were clearly shit-scared. Petrified.

  Our chief worry was that rebels were mingling amongst them, weapons hidden under their clothing. It would only require half a dozen to do so, and start firing from inside the village as the main force attacked, to really mess us up. We’d be facing an attack from without and within, which would not be a top fluffy feeling. But there was fuck-all we could do about that right now.

  As dusk faded into full-on darkness we were on an absolute knife-edge. No one would be getting any sleep tonight. The quiet in the village only served to accentuate the increase in noises from the jungle. There were more weird animal-like yells and shrieks, and here and there the snap of a branch rang out like a pistol shot. Plus there were the low murmurs coming from those villagers still making their way in to join the hundreds gathered on the square, huddled together for safety.

  We spent our time with safety catches off and fingers on the trigger, waiting for what was coming. We could sense that the jungle was alive in a way it hadn’t been before. It felt thick with malice. It was watching and it was hostile. I could sense the enemy presence, and feel the threat hanging heavy in the air.

  By first light we’d still not been hit, though I didn’t doubt the rebels had mapped our positions comprehensively. As the early rays of sunlight streamed through the uppermost branches, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. We had fourteen hours of daylight ahead of us, and if they hit us during that time the advantage switched to us. We’d be able to see clearly, and we’d be fighting over ground we’d prepared exhaustively. The chances of scoring a first-round kill were greatly increased, which meant ammo became less of an issue.

  If they wanted to hit us during the hours of daylight – bring it on.

  ‘The following stuff’s just come in,’ Tricky announced, once he’d scribbled down that morning’s Sched. After he’d read it out he’d destroy it, so nothing useful could ever be captured by the enemy.

  ‘The Amphibious Readiness Group has moved into a position where 42 Commando can be put ashore. The intention is that 1 PARA will be withdrawn and the Royal Marines will RIP those positions held by 1 PARA, and by us. Be prepared for an RM delegation to come in by helo to your resupply LZ, to scope out your positions.’

  ‘RIP’ stands for relief in place – when one unit comes in to relieve another in their positions. It stood to reason we’d get relieved at some point, but as of yet we’d been given no timescale to expect the Royal Marines (RM) to fly in and check out our positions. In any case, our mindset remained this: the rebel attack is imminent; they’re five klicks or less away; they had eyes-on us last night; they’ll hit us within the next twenty-four hours, which means it ain’t gonna happen on the Marines’ watch.

  Wag and me did our morning walkabout. Doubtless the blokes hadn’t slept during the night, so we needed to reiterate the need to get some rest during the daylight hours.

  ‘We need the same level of alertness as ever,’ I told Dolly, ‘but those not on stag need to get as much sleep as possible, plus get some food in your stomachs. If we end up on the run we won’t be stopping to eat, so get as much scoff as you can on board.’

  We repeated the message with all the patrols, and the chat and the banter was all good. Morale seemed amazingly high in the face of a force that outnumbered us pretty much a hundred to one. As we moved through the positions, we’d seen the odd villager going about their business, smiling and waving. By now they were utterly convinced that the twenty-six of us were their saviours: The British are here; God’s on our side … That in turn served to strengthen our resolve and the sense that we were all in this together.

  As we returned to the HQ ATAP, I made a comme
nt to Wag. ‘Mate, the blokes are holding up well. We’re as prepared as we’ll ever be. If it’s going to come let’s just get in amongst it.’

  ‘Aye.’ Wag nodded. ‘It’s time.’

  We got back to the HQ position, only to have another vehicle roll in from the same direction as the journalist had come. But this time it was very different from a lone Lada taxi cab. It was some of the SAS from Lungi Airport, driving their open-topped Pinkies. There were eight Regiment lads in two wagons. We invited them to partake of whatever hospitality we could offer. Oddly, they didn’t seem too partial to a Lungi Lol balti, but they were happy to share a brew.

  For some reason they had no weapon mounts on their wagons, so they could carry no machine guns. All they had were their personal weapons, but those we eyed with great envy. Being official UK Special Forces they had all the usual Gucci kit. Six of the blokes had the lightweight M16 variant with M203 40 mm underslung grenade launchers attached. The other two hefted Minimi SAW (squad automatic weapon) light machine guns, a beautiful little drum-fed LMG perfect for fighting in close jungle.

  What we wouldn’t have given to have been equipped with Minimi SAWs and lightweight M16s.

  We did loads of joint training with the SAS. Right now, I was involved in several cutting-edge equipment development programmes with the Hereford boys, HAPLSS being one such enterprise. Now they’d pitched up in Lungi Lol with their top-notch weaponry, while most of us were holding the line with precious little ammo and the cursed SA80.

  Because we did training and ops together, we had loads of friends in common. Blokes migrated from the Pathfinders to the SAS for the extra pay, the kit and the career stability. In UKSF you got a better pension, better chances of promotion, plus job security. None of that was available in a black outfit like ours. We exchanged news over a brew, swapped stories, and then the SAS lads told us they were moving ahead to get ‘eyes-on’ the bad guys.

  We warned them the rebels were less than five klicks away. Having agreed to keep in touch via the radios – that was when they were working – the SAS guys mounted their Pinkies and set off on the highway heading out of the village. It was day nine of our mission by now, and still we’d not taken one round of fire from the enemy. But the SAS lads had reiterated what every man and his dog was telling us – that the rebels were preparing to steamroller through Lungi Lol and surge south to take the airport.

  Around lunchtime we got a warning via the Thuraya that the Royal Marines were on their way to scope out our positions. Grant and I headed down to the LZ. By now the Chinook pilots knew what they were flying into here, but the RM guys would be coming direct from their ship. Most likely, all the RM pilot would have been given was a grid in the midst of the jungle. From his perspective he was flying into a gap in the canopy, so it made sense to help guide him in.

  I stood with my back to the wind holding up an orange air marker panel (AMP) to my front. Every Pathfinder carries an AMP: it’s a foldable piece of fluorescent vinyl that collapses to the size of a deck of cards. I could hear the distinctive beat of the rotor blades already, though this sounded like a Sea King, as opposed to a twin-rotor Chinook.

  The helo appeared over the ragged fringe of the jungle. I saw the pilot spot me and my AMP and adjust his line of approach, and then he was flaring out to land. He came down nose-onto me, fifteen metres in front. I gave him the thumbs-up, signalling they were down safely, and got the same in return.

  I moved around to the side door, knelt down with Grant, and waited for the RM advance party to disgorge. We were expecting several marines, but when the door swung open just the one figure dismounted. He jumped down and ran in a crouch to join us, the Sea King already winding up for takeoff. Because I’d air-marked the LZ I was slightly closer, which meant that the RM bloke greeted me first.

  He thrust out a hand. ‘Captain Richard Cantrill, 42 Commando.’

  ‘Steve Heaney, Pathfinders.’

  Grant joined us and shook hands. ‘Grant Harris, Pathfinders.’

  Neither of us had given our rank, and I could see the guy searching our uniforms for any rank slides. The Sea King was now at treetop height and pretty much gone.

  ‘Just the one?’ Grant asked.

  ‘I’m OC 42 Recce Platoon. Been sent in to get a feel for the lie of the land and your positions. Intention is Recce Platoon will come into here to relieve you guys.’

  The RM captain’s accent was southern English and well-bred, with a bit of a lisp thrown in for good measure. He looked to be in his mid-twenties and was around six-foot-one, with close-cropped hair. His uniform was spotless, his boots were gleaming, and he seemed fit, athletic and purposeful, not to mention scrupulously clean.

  His visit was scheduled to be a short one, and he was carrying nothing but his SA80 and his webbing. I figured he was doing his best to ignore our ten days of facial growth, mixed with sweat, shit, piss and general grime. But still there was the hint of a look that he flashed at Grant and me: You’ve let yourself go there a bit, haven’t you, lads?

  If Mojo was up there with Guardsman standards of parade-ground smartness, Captain Richard Cantrill was immaculate. He’d out-Mojo Mojo. I could smell the soap and the aftershave, and his Combat Soldier 95 (CS95) uniform had knife-edge creases ironed into it. Combat 95 was notorious. It was made from a thin and flimsy nylon in Disruptive Pattern Material (DPM), which cuts into you and doesn’t breathe. We might wear it around camp in the UK, but as soon as we deployed anywhere we’d ditch it for some cotton jungle fatigues – just like we were wearing now.

  They were durable, reasonably breathable, and nice and baggy. By contrast, Captain Cantrill’s Combat 95s were bordering on the figure hugging, if not skintight. He was wearing standard British Army boots, ones that would be next to useless in this kind of environment. They were rubber-soled, with leather uppers, and great for yomping across the rain-and-wind-swept Brecons – but in this kind of heat and humidity your feet would roast, sweat and rot to pieces in them.

  The American military made the perfect jungle boot – one with a hardened sole, sporting a metal spline that would stop punjis from piercing it. The bottom half of the boot was made of leather, but with drainage holes in it, complete with perforated metal covers like mini-grills. They allowed the boot to breathe and drain when filled with stagnant water, after wading through swamps. Above the leather was canvas that came up high around the ankle, and it was dryable and easy to move in. They were designed for the jungle, and each of us had managed to get our hands on a pair.

  The nearest the Royal Marines have to a unit like the Pathfinders is their Brigade Patrol Troop (BPT). The BPT boys are a pre-assault force, consisting of Mountain Leaders trained to scale cliffs and fix lines, to enable the main force to come behind them and assault a coastal position. They’re superlative at what they do, but their specialism is vertical assaults up rock faces – not going beyond an enemy’s front line as a deep battle asset, or operating in isolated jungle.

  We had two Pathfinders that had qualified as Mountain Leaders. It stood to reason that scaling cliffs and mountains had to be a part of your skill-set if you were operating deep inside enemy territory. In 1994 a British military expedition had gone missing in Lowe’s Gully, a notorious jungle chasm in Malaysia. A mixed force of SAS, SBS and Pathfinders were sent in to find them. The only way in was to rope down a one-thousand-foot waterfall at the head of the gully. It was two Pathfinders who led the way, for our blokes had the greatest capability and experience.

  Royal Marine Captain Cantrill had flown in to get a sense of what exactly they were about to take on here in Lungi Lol. To be fair, he’d come direct off a ship, and hygiene is such a key part of living in the close confines of a Royal Navy vessel – hence his squeaky clean appearance. But I wondered what he’d make of things here. As we walked him up to the HQ ATAP, Grant pointed out our various positions, explaining how long we’d been on the ground and describing the integration of the locals into the village defences.

  ‘Recentl
y, there’s been a significant increase in the threat level,’ he explained. ‘We thought we were going to get hit last night, so it will more than likely be tonight. Intel says it’s a force of some 2000 RUF rebels, so those are the numbers.’

  As Grant spoke I was monitoring the captain’s facial expressions. I’d noticed a distinct change come over him. He’d gone from this smart, shiny, über-confident, thrusting figure to something very different. He looked visibly shocked by what we were facing here, and what he was supposed to be flying his men into in due course. It was clear that no one had briefed him on the isolation of our position, the threat level, or the unorthodox measures we’d adopted to defend this place.

  Captain Cantrill seemed particularly taken by the punji fields. I couldn’t wait to offer him my yaffling iron, so he could have a go at Nathe’s snail-and-fungi balti.

  We reached the HQ ATAP and introduced him to Tricky and Wag. He took a seat on the edge of the depression in between Grant and me. Tricky passed a brew over, and it did the rounds clockwise, everyone taking a sip. When it got to Cantrill, I could see him having to force some of it down him. Sharing a brew with a bunch of evil scumbags like us was clearly not to the captain’s liking.

  ‘So, explain to us what’s happening with the Marines and the 1 PARA RIP,’ I prompted. ‘What’s the timeline for the handover and is it the same for us getting RIP’d here?’

  ‘All I’ve been briefed is that 1 PARA will leave and 42 will come in and take up the mantle of those positions. I’m here to scope out RIP’ing you guys from here.’

  We spent fifteen minutes sketching out the village on a hand-drawn map, and explaining all the nuances of the village defensive system that we had set in place, and the chief’s pivotal role. We briefed him on Mojo and his men and the role they’d play as a back-stop force, and then we took him on a walkabout.

  We ended up at Dolly’s position, across the highway and out on our left flank. In the interim, Cantrill had got to see the punji fields, the DIY Claymores, the cleared arcs of fire, the battle trenches, the works. Plus he’d got a good eyeful of how the men had adapted to village life. He was scheduled to leave on a helo at 1630, so it was a whistle-stop tour, but even so he appeared somewhat disturbed.