Operation Mayhem

by Steve Heaney MC

  Gibbo shot out his hand. ‘Grant!’

  Behind Gibbo were stood the others, and I got a few nods of greeting – but they couldn’t come forward until the colonel and Grant were done with their meet and greet. At the same time Bob Bryant was bobbing about, anxious to be seen to be in control.

  ‘Right, sir, this is what we need to do …’ he began, but the colonel waved him into silence.

  ‘Hold on, Bob, I want to hear from Grant.’

  The two of them had a good old chinwag, and then Grant motioned for the CO to take a walk around the positions. As soon as they were gone the others moved in. Jacko was typical Jacko – a shock of wavy, bouncy, bouffant blond hair above an old Second World War leather shoulder holster, with his pistol slung inside. He was like Lawrence of Arabia – a throwback to an older, more innocent age. Everyone loved Jacko, and especially his hail-fellow-well-met attitude.

  ‘Fucking hell, Jacko, you’d get where shite couldn’t,’ Wag greeted him – referring to his having taken over command of us lot, Donaldson being gone.

  Jacko held out a hand for Wag to shake. ‘Hah, hah, hah. Well done. Bloody incredible. Excellent. Bloody well done.’

  Jacko tried really hard to swear like a ‘proper’ soldier. He’d start with bloody, damn and shit, escalating finally to a fuck, but even his ‘fucks’ sounded posh. We gathered in the HQ depression, passing a brew amongst us – sippers, naturally.

  Jacko leant forward excitedly. ‘The CO – he’s fucking bubbling over! He’s telling everyone – we gave those rebels a damn good shoeing. Right, tell me the story. What bloody happened here?’

  For a good fifteen minutes or so we proceeded to relate most of it, and there was a real sense of decompressing here.

  ‘How are the men?’ Jacko asked me, once we were done. ‘How are the men?’

  ‘Mega,’ I told him. ‘They performed brilliantly. We couldn’t have asked for more.’

  Jacko nodded, vigorously. ‘CO’s bloody impressed. Bloody well impressed. Taught those rebels a thing or two.’

  ‘Where did Captain Cantrill go?’ I asked Jacko. ‘Did he transit via Lungi?’

  ‘Yes, and he looked as if he’d seen a bloody thing or two, I can tell you!’

  After a good few minutes of us lot chewing the fat, Colonel Gibson, Bob Bryant, Grant and the rest returned from their walkabout.

  Gibbo plonked himself down on the lip of the depression. ‘Fucking Pathfinders … I knew I could count on you lot. I knew, I knew when I put you here it was a bloody good decision.’

  We chatted for a while and then the colonel got up to go. But as he went to leave he turned back, and called over his shoulder: ‘Steve, can I have a word?’

  We walked out of the depression towards Wag’s gym area. We stood there in the shade, out of anyone’s hearing. The colonel pulled out his water bottle, took a good swig, then offered it to me.

  ‘Nah, it’s okay, sir, I’ve got some.’

  ‘Tremendous action by the Pathfinders. Tremendous.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. The blokes were fantastic. The right men for the right job.’

  He fixed me with this look. ‘Is that what you’re telling me, Steve? The Pathfinders have got the right men on the ground now?’

  I knew what he was driving at. ‘Yeah. Absolutely, sir. Absolutely.’

  ‘Good.’ He screwed the top on his water bottle and slotted it into his belt kit. ‘That’s what I needed to hear.’

  With that, we returned to the HQ ATAP. I made my way back into the depression, Colonel Gibson heading off to have words with Bob Bryant. The colonel signalled for Grant and Jacko to join him, and there was an animated discussion between the four of them – the CO, Bob Bryant, Jacko and Grant.

  Everyone else was staring at me. ‘So what was all that about, with Gibbo?’

  I shrugged. ‘He just said give the blokes a big chuck up. Well done. And he just wanted to check that we’re the right men on the ground now. So I told him – yeah, we are.’

  A few moments later Jacko rejoined us. He had a massive smile on his face.

  ‘Bob was angling to stay,’ he chortled. ‘Said it was an ideal 1 PARA role, and they were fresh on the ground. The CO cut him short: “No, Bob, this is a Pathfinder tasking. Things can only get worse. I need soldiers on the ground who can look after themselves and move through and live in the jungle. Your force cannot do that. Bob, you will stay today, but I will withdraw you tomorrow morning. That’s my decision – final.” Bloody CO told it like it was!’

  It made sense. By keeping the PARAs here for a day we’d get a twenty-four-hour break, before we were back in the hot seat.

  It was also pretty clear that Gibbo was right when he’d said ‘things could only get worse’. The White Rabbit had given us a heads-up on the flood of Intel they’d got in over the last few hours. The rebels had declared that ‘the British troops at Lungi Lol will pay in blood for what they have done’. They had to take Lungi Lol and make good on Operation Kill British, or they’d lose all credibility.

  And so the rebel commanders had declared an all-out onslaught.

  24

  We pulled the patrol commanders in so Grant could brief them. ‘Right, guys, the decision’s been taken that we stay. The CO’s keeping us here. Period.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘That’s only right.’

  ‘Fucking right, as well.’

  ‘But there’s a real chance now we’re going to be facing an onslaught,’ Grant continued. ‘The rebels have taken a beating and they’re thirsting for revenge, so be prepared.’

  ‘Yeah, fuck ’em.’

  ‘Let ’em come.’

  ‘I’ve been told 1 PARA will be staying the night and they’ll be lifted out tomorrow morning. So take this oppo to get some serious rest, get some food inside you, and get personal kit squared away, ’cause tonight could be fun and games.’

  All were good with that. We now had a platoon of 1 PARA lads in place, plus the twenty-six of us lot. That meant fifty-six all told, facing whatever the rebels intended to throw at us. Colonel Gibson had promised us all the weaponry and support we could wish for, so I sat with Wag drawing up our bucket list.

  ‘Half a dozen Claymores,’ I started. Wag noted it down. ‘Grenades, if they’re in-country, and 3500 rounds of 7.62 mm link for the guns; another two bandoliers of ammo each for the SA8os, plus 51 mm HE

  Wag glanced up from his pen and paper. ‘Tell you what, let’s ask for a couple of 81 mm mortars.’

  I grinned. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  We finished scribbling the list, then handed it to Jacko to get sorted. The CO and his retinue were flying out complete with the wounded girl – the one that Bri Budd had patched up – so she could be given some proper hospital treatment. The girl’s mum was going with her, so it looked as if Bri wasn’t going to be having a Lungi Lol wedding any time soon.

  The colonel’s retinue plus-some loaded up the Chinook and it took to the skies, which left us here for the duration.

  With the 1 PARA lads manning our posts, we were looking forward to the first proper night’s rest in eleven days – that’s if the rebels didn’t hit us tonight. We got fresh Intel in that evening, gleaned from intercepts of rebel mobile phone calls. They had taken a serious number of dead and injured. Their commanders were incandescent with rage: predictably, they were coming back at us with everything they’d got.

  Just before last light Mojo rocked up.

  ‘What, no bread tonight?’ I joked.

  He looked confused. ‘No, no, not tonight – I do not think so.’

  Mojo didn’t really get the British sense of humour. He was incredibly formal and regimented, and wind-ups and piss-taking just weren’t his thing.

  ‘What happened to the bodies?’ I asked.

  ‘We took them into the jungle and we buried them.’

  ‘Right, good work.’

  Out on the darkening road a crowd of locals hurried past. I could sense their fear, and
I knew instinctively they were headed for the village square. When I asked Mojo what was what, he confirmed what we’d suspected: all day long they’d had villagers turning up at Lungi Lol, reporting news of work parties being forced to bury the rebel dead and carry their injured.

  Come nightfall, the inrush of villagers into Lungi Lol got the PARAs into a massive state of heightened alert. The tension was thick and greasy in the darkness – like you could cut it with a knife.

  Bob was up and about, looking restless and twitchy. He jabbed an angry finger towards the villagers moving along the road. ‘Right, we’ve got to fucking stop those people! They could be anyone!’

  ‘How will you stop them, Bob?’ Grant queried. ‘They’ve been coming in for days now. Are you going to physically stop and search each one? They’re women and children from outlying villages. They’re coming here for sanctuary. That’s why we’re here.’

  Bob snorted like a bull. ‘Well, I’m not bloody happy there are people moving in and taking up residence in this village, and I don’t know who they are.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it then?’ Grant repeated.

  For a while longer Bob huffed, puffed and tried to blow the house down – before he gave up. The quiet descended over us again. It was so silent that I imagined I could hear a leaf falling in the forest. Even the insects seemed to have canned it for the night. We’d resumed our dark-hours sentry routine, because we didn’t want to risk getting jumped by the rebels.

  Wag and me took the first stag. ‘You know what this is, don’t you, mate?’ I whispered to him.

  ‘What what is?’

  ‘This silence?’

  ‘What, mate?’

  ‘It’s the quiet before the storm. They are out there at the moment, licking their wounds, and they are fucking mustering every man they can lay their hands on.’

  Wag nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Silence.

  By first light the feared onslaught hadn’t materialised. We guessed it was taking a while to organise the kind of numbers they wanted to throw at us.

  Meanwhile, we ripped the piss out of the PARAs, who were shortly going to be leaving. They’ll be back tonight; you can read about it in the newspapers. Bob Bryant’s face was as long as sin as he gathered his blokes to load up the incoming helo.

  He had a few last words with Grant, then to everyone at the HQ ATAP: ‘Good luck, Pathfinders.’

  The Chinook came in at 0800 hours, ready to whisk the PARAs away. But first off the open ramp came these guys hefting the unmistakable forms of 81 mm mortars. The 81 mm is a seriously heavy piece of kit, and it comes in three lumps. First off the helo were what looked like three 81 mm tubes. Next came three base plates, like large steel dustbin lids, and finally the bipod legs.

  Wag turned to me. ‘Fuck me, we got the 81 mm mortars. Three of ’em!’

  Next came the big green boxes of 81 mm mortar ammo – each round weighing some four kilograms. There were fifty illume rounds and fifty HE per tube. Even with the 1 PARA lads helping, it took a good fifteen minutes to unload all the ammo. Shit. With the mortars in position and this much ammo to hand, we really would have transformed this place into Sierra Leone’s Alamo.

  Mortars stacked up, we got our own ammo resupply off the helo. Once that was unloaded, we gave Bob the thumbs-up, the PARAs climbed aboard and the Chinook got airborne again. Wag and me were left surrounded by a massive pile of war matériel, plus eleven new guys – the 1 PARA mortar teams.

  Each team consisted of three mortar men. They hailed from 1 PARA’s Support Company, and their mortar teams are renowned throughout the British Army as being some of the best in the business. If we needed 81 mm HE rounds dropped down the rebels’ throats, these were the guys to do it.

  I knew the lead Mortar Fire Controller (MFC), ALPHA, a bloke called Mike ‘Tommo’ Thomson, plus his 2iC, Joe Caveney, from my 3 PARA days.

  We shook hands. ‘All right, Tommo? Joe?’

  ‘Hear you was fucking mixing it up the other night?’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what you’re here for.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re here to please.’

  I did the intros with Wag. Then: ‘Tell you what, you guys walk into the village with us, and leave a couple of blokes on stag, and we’ll come back down with the Pinz for the ammo and the tubes.’

  ‘Yeah, gleaming, mate, gleaming.’

  As we made our way up the track towards the village square I briefed the guys. ‘I’ll leave it in your hands, Tommo, but what we need, mate, is a wall of protective fire – 81 mm rounds – all around village, and we’ll talk you through a target list once we get you settled.’

  ‘Okay, mate, okay.’

  ‘Under your guidance, Tommo, let’s look at the siting of the mortars and discuss marking and targeting.’

  ‘You show me what you want, I’ll site the tubes and we’ll go from there.’

  We got the resupply of ammo distributed around our patrols. By the time we were done, Tommo was already getting the mortars dug in. He was a total whirlwind of energy, and we could see him in the centre of the village getting his blokes wound up to speed. Mortar pit one was sited opposite the chief’s house. Pit two was across from it, on the far side of the track, and pit three was staggered back from those two.

  Tommo and his lads slotted together these collapsible shovels. They marked out each mortar pit, which would consist of a circular depression some seven feet across, and then they started to dig.

  Wag nodded in their direction. ‘Someone needs to tell them Ibrahim can get a work gang on that.’

  We laughed.

  Tommo struck me as being like the British Army’s equivalent of Ibrahim, and he certainly drew the crowds. The villagers were keeping their distance as Tommo and his boys worked, for it all looked decidedly dangerous. But they were clearly thinking – what are the British Army up to now?

  Wag grabbed one of the belts of 7.62 mm link that we’d been re-supplied with, and broke it down by snapping out the rounds. He piled the 200 loose bullets into an empty ammo box and handed it to Mojo, telling him to get his boys to properly bomb up their mags with the extra ammo.

  ‘Make sure it’s in their mags, not in their pockets loose,’ Wag told him. ‘Make sure it’s loaded, okay?’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Mojo confirmed. ‘In the magazines for the rifles. Very useful for where we will go if there is a problem.’

  By that Mojo had to mean the trenches to the rear of the village.

  It took barely an hour for Tommo and his boys to dig the mortar pits. Then the mortar base plate went down in the centre of the pit, looking like a spoked wheel laid on its side. The tube went next, a ball-and-joint connection attaching it to the heavy plate. Finally, the bipod legs locked onto the barrel. An hour and a half in and we could see three large tubes poking skywards. Next, they stacked the ammo into the rear of the pits – one pile of illume and one of HE.

  That done, they started filling these empty hessian sandbags with dirt, building up a two-foot-high, double-bagged wall all around the pit. It was 1200 hours by the time they were done, and they had never bloody stopped. We now had a fully operational mortar line. The three blokes in each pit would never leave their station, unless to piss or to shit. They cooked, ate, slept and fought from there.

  After some rushed scoff, Tommo and Joe came to scope out some targets with us. We walked along the main track, passing the point where the rebel bodies had been piled up.

  ‘Right, mate, you advise,’ I started, ‘but this is what we think the rebels did when they hit us, and what we reckon they’ll do next time.’

  Joe and Tommo got out notebooks and maps and held them at the ready.

  I talked them around the maps. ‘This, mate, is the point where we think they first broke cover and came across open ground to hit us. It’s about 1.2 klicks out.’

  Tommo nodded, vigorously. ‘Where the track meets that feature, we’ll mark that as the first target – Xray 1-1. Where else?’


  ‘We think they broke out of the jungle there, mate.’

  ‘Right – Xray 1-2.’

  ‘Plus see where the train line drops into that dead ground there – that was another massing point.’

  ‘Right – Xray 1-3.’

  In this way we went around the maps and over the terrain, selecting all the obvious targets we could hit with mortar fire. We finished off with Fern Gully, the last point from where they’d tried to overrun us.

  ‘Put one target at the far end of Fern Gully,’ I told him, ‘so we can bring fire down there, and one at the near end.’

  ‘Right – Xray 1-7 and Xray 1-8,’ Tommo confirmed. ‘We’ll give ’em all Xray numbers, to keep it simple-stupid. It needs to be so simple that under fire your guys can have a copy of this target list, and any one of them can call in the fire. All they need to say is: enemy movement Xray 1-5 …’

  ‘Fantastic.’ I paused, then glanced at Tommo. ‘Mate, they got fucking close last time.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, I ’eard.’

  ‘So, we need an FPF.’

  FPF stands for Final Protective Fire – in other words, calling in mortar rounds on top of your own position.

  Tommo scrunched his face up. ‘Right … You want an FPF?’

  ‘Yeah, we do. What’s the closest you can give us?’

  Tommo scratched his shaven head. ‘Officially, I can’t come closer than 250 metres to friendly force troops. But you know how it is … The order to fire the FPF will have to come from Grant, though, mate, ’cause he’s the senior man on the ground.’

  I told him we were good with that.

  ‘The mortar may get a drop-short, so you’re pretty much dropping on your own men,’ Tommo added. ‘To be clear, mate, the FPF is pretty much only ever fired if we are about to get overrun: it’s the last thing we can do. Once we’ve fired the FPF the mortars are pretty much useless. We’ll have been overrun.’

  ‘Okay, Tommo, yeah, I know … So we need to build you into our withdrawal plans. How about this: you fire the FPF, throw what you can on the back of the Pinz, then you and your blokes jump aboard and get the fuck out of Dodge.’