John had booked me into the same hotel as before and there was really nothing I needed to do, since he had organised the berets and everything else that had been required. It would be waiting for me to pick up the following afternoon to take back out with me, John said. The most important thing to do was actually to make it to the RV this time, again at Cloggies, he added.
My trip into Malawi was really just an excuse for a big piss-up, which was just as well because I needed one. I dumped my kit in the room, showered, got changed, and decided to have a wander around Blantyre. It was 19.00hrs now and I had arranged to meet John in a couple of hours at Cloggies.
Blantyre at night still had a magical feel about it. It was quite dark and the street lights were dimly lit. The air was hot but a cool breeze kept the sweat from rolling down my back. A white shirt was the order of the evening; any other colour would have shown sweaty patches. I had a drink in the hotel bar, then went across the road to another more upmarket hotel and had a couple more.
This other hotel was further back from the main drag than the rest. It had large lawned gardens surrounding all sides, a drive-in and drive-out reception area, and more lights on than the Titanic . It also had a large swimming pool which, surprisingly, was not at all busy. I sauntered up the drive and passed the concierge who was looking very dapper in a typical Dorchester concierge attire; long dark Crombie-style coat, ribbed in blue, tall velvet hat. He must have been roasting as it was still very warm outside. He tipped his hat as I approached, as one would have expected to see in colonial times. Out of courtesy I asked him where the swimming pool was, though I could make it out through the open reception. He walked with me to the pool, snapping his fingers at one of his colleagues to take his place outside while he escorted me.
The pool was clear and inviting. I could have quite easily taken a dip, but instead, I ordered some food and drank a few more 'brown' bottles of beer in anticipation of RVing with John. The beer was Carlsberg but I have never seen this lager sold in brown bottles anywhere else. I got a bit local 'int' from the bar man; the usual encouragement of the offer of a drink oiled his tonsils. He told me about the bars. Cloggies was apparently the in place to go. Now I was getting somewhere. I got him to sort me out a cab. Ten minutes later, after screeching around a few narrow and poorly lit backstreets with the driver constantly on the horn, tooting every living creature we passed, I arrived at a large detached wooden structure fronted by neon lights. A flashing sign spelling 'Cloggies' stuck out like the spaceship from E.T . The throbbing soul track blaring out and a crowd of about ten men surrounding a couple having a drunken brawl, all shouting and having a laugh just to the left of the entrance, gave me some idea of what I was about to walk into. Anxiously I made my way in. No doormen, no payment asked for; nobody gave me a second look. This was pretty strange considering the place appeared to be off the 'tourist track'.
At first sight, Cloggies looked an exclusive type of place (by local standards), not exactly a bar or a disco, a sort of in-between place, more of a clip joint for Blantyre's trendies. I suppose really it equated to the 'sticky carpets' pub-cum-club we have in every town back in the UK, nice and loud and ready for a refurbishment, but you wouldn't want to take your mother there.
Inside, the place looked like a huge log cabin with just one bar running down the centre. It was heaving, and everyone was dancing. I managed to find John tucked up in a corner down at the far end of the bar, drinking with a couple of expats and surrounded by a slack handful of the local talent.
'John, John, some place this is!' I screamed above the ceaseless Marvin Gaye.
'Hey Steve, glad you could make it this time. You like it? Good.'
As he was speaking I caught the eye of one of the girls. She was a small pretty little thing with a firm pair of breasts. She smiled. Instantly I got turned on.
'Let me introduce you to everybody,' John was saying.
Before I knew it I had a beer in one hand and a girl on the other. All the girls were locals. They weren't exactly on the game, John had said, but they used their attributes — good looks and all that — to get on in life. They generally long-term dated the ex-pats, since they were the ones with the American dollar. Most of them had day jobs. It was a brilliant night, John's mates were a good laugh and we all got totally slaughtered, including the girls. It was just what I needed, a good laugh and stacks of female company. Being out in the field for so long you can get pretty pissed off with the same old faces and no fanny. It made a change, it refreshed me, and it made me forget about Lynn back home. She, as far as I was concerned, was now history. I had my soul well and truly cleansed that night by an olive-skinned, firm-breasted beauty by the name of Maria.
Less than 24 hours later I was back in the compound. Nothing had changed, the only thing was that Brad had been told by the Colonel that the passing-out parade for the troops was to be brought forward by one week, so they would be issued their berets the Friday after next. Orders had come down from Maputo that they had to start ops on the following Saturday. There wasn't a lot any of us could say about it. The Colonel was in charge and that was that. The training programme was almost complete anyway, so it didn't really matter that much.
Another reason for all this was that intelligence had also come down from Gurué, the tea plantation region the convoys were heading for. Apparently Renamo had been seen in and around the hills and there was a ton of tea already picked and refined, waiting to be shifted. Reports hinted that Renamo might be planning an attack on Gurué to burn this tea. Well, that was the story we were given, but more than probably, the real issue was the fact that next Friday was Armed Forces Day, one of the biggest dates in the country's calendar. It would be good for the troops' morale to pass out on this day. It would also be good for us, because we could take a break from the training for a week or two until the next course arrived. That was our intention, anyway.
That night I went to bed earlier than usual, which I put down to the previous night's extra-curricular activity. But I couldn't sleep. I experienced extreme nausea and was sweating really badly. Every pore in my body seemed to be working overtime. I wasn't sick and I didn't even feel I wanted to chuck up, I felt just so drained. The morning was no different. I tried to get up and walk around, but I just didn't have the strength. The guys thought I was suffering from a humungous hangover, but the strange thing was that I hadn't felt hungover the morning after being on the beer.
Come the afternoon I was wasted, and started to hallucinate really badly. Meanwhile, my body was approaching boiling point, and I was still sweating like a bastard. The guys took their turns in coming over every so often, to check that I was still alive and to top me up with water. (I'd dehydrated a lot and had to replace these fluids that were draining out of my body at a rapid rate of knots. Without them, I would have been in an even worse state than I was at that moment.) Death felt pretty close.
The door to my half a container was open, but it made no difference to me if the air conditioning was on or not, as I was past noticing. I kept drifting in and out of consciousness — at least, this is what I was told later; I couldn't remember anything!
One of the doctors from MSF was rushed up to see me. He took a blood sample and had a good poke about but couldn't really assess what the trouble was until he had analysed my blood. He and his team worked under pretty primitive conditions and because he was operating in the field he had this all-singing-all-dancing portable blood tester for every strain of nasty that lurked around this part of the world.
It took a day to get the blood test back, but nothing had showed up. All the guys could do was to keep force feeding me with solutions of Dehydralite. Sometimes I would come around and start to talk, then I would drift off again. I really believed I was going to die. It was five days before I came out of whatever condition I was in. I hadn't moved, not even to go to the toilet. I don't know if I ever passed anything — if I did, then the guys kept quiet about it. It can't have been nice, cleaning up after my incontin
ence spasms: a shit job, as they say!
I lost almost a stone in weight during those five days, but the really strange thing was that I recovered as quickly as I went down. Within a day, I was back eating and feeling OK, just a bit dizzy from lying down for so long, that was all. I never found out what it was that sent me into nightmare mode for those few days and, strangely, none of the others went down with anything similar during the trip. I was just thankful that I was going to be fighting fit again in time for the passing-out parade.
The final week was spent preparing the troops, their kit and their vehicles. There was now an urgent need for hardcore intelligence about recent movements of Renamo in the area the convoy would drive through. This was a problem, but the best we could do was ask the Command in Maputo to fly up their latest intelligence reports for the north and collate them the best we could. It was far from ideal, but we had been asked by Colonel Rameka if we would have a go: 'An int brief by Mr Brad would make the soldiers think that the threat is real. Of course, we all know it is, but it might just make them all switch on to make them talk through their anti-ambush drills as they have been taught,' Colonel Rameka had said.
Most of the troops had responded really well to our teaching methods, taking on board nearly everything we had taught. This was quite a feat on their part, considering the conditions, and the entire team was pleased with how the course had gone. We were all genuinely proud of them.
Another surprise. Brad had received a signal from London, notifying him that an independent TV company was flying into Mozambique to make a documentary on the newly formed Special Forces unit, and requesting that he and the rest of the team 'make them most welcome and give them all the support they require'. That was all we needed! Babysitting a Brit film crew in the middle of a warzone. This particular contract was not going to be as covert as we had been led to believe!
The film crew landed in our laps two days before the parade, four men and a woman. They were a jovial bunch of mixed ages, the director and cameraman mid-40s, the others late-20s. All were university types and it was pretty obvious from the amount of kit they had that they were expecting to rough it big style, with tents and all. There was a funny incident on the first night, with their portable Chinese camp beds — a canvas sheet which you lie on, pulled tight between four thin metal bars which act as the bed's legs — when they all broke as soon as each of them went to get their heads down. The canvas tore away from the legs as soon as any weight was applied, making them beyond repair. Because it was their first night, we'd all stayed up until midnight drinking and getting to know each other. We were laughing our heads off as we heard them swearing and tripping over all of their gear, trying to sort their bedding arrangements out under torchlight.
The following morning over breakfast, as the crew were walking in, just for a joke Jimmy and I openly discussed the 'six Ps' we had been taught back in recruit training: proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance.
'Steve, what were those six Ps we were taught back in the army, somethin' about prior, proper preparation ..?'
'Yeah, Jimmy, I know what you mean, proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance …'
'Oh hello, guys, have a good nights sleep did we?' Brad interrupted.
There was a slight pause before everyone broke out laughing.
'What a right bunch of gentlemen our hosts are — and not one offered to give up their bed for me,' Sarah, the girl amongst them, chirped up.
Another slight pause.
'You know, my door's always open,' I said.
'Ah well, that can all change as from tonight, if you're luck's in,' Jimmy joked.
'Is that right? Choices and more choices. My, my, aren't I a lucky girl!'
'Now seriously, you should always check your kit before going out in the field, it's SOPs, isn't that right Brad?' said Jimmy.
'You're fuckin' spot on there, Jim boy, you master bullshitter you. Will the real Mr REMF please expose himself?'
Jimmy pushed back his chair and was just about to do his full-moon party trick. Sarah, who was obviously used to this sort of banter and messing around, was not perturbed at all, and soon realised what was about to happen.
'Please Jimmy, can't it wait until we have all eaten? I'm not sure I want to see your tackle before my tea and toast, thank you very much.'
This little episode broke the ice. We hadn't known how to take Sarah when she first arrived and, being gentlemen, had been on our best behaviour. But now we knew she was up for a laugh, and she was treated like one of the boys.
During their stay we gave them every possible assistance in escorting them around the local area so they would get their story and use up their film.
They interviewed a couple of us, asking us how we had got involved with this type of work, what we thought of the war, etc. None of the questions appeared to be loaded and the crew seemed genuinely interested in what we had achieved. They were also looking forward to filming a bit of live action. What their idea of live action was I didn't really know, but we tried to get them involved with a bit of live firing down on the ranges for a start. However, trying to entice a 'come on' with Renamo was not a good idea, if that's what they had in mind. Too many people have this Hollywood attitude about what happens in war, but believe me, when one human being sees another get his or her brains blown out, it ain't pretty.
Meanwhile, those troops who had made it through training were going to be presented with a 'Red Beret'. Even those we felt didn't quite make the grade were awarded one. To be honest, we knew this would happen, right from the start; all the troops on the course, good or bad, would pass. However, not all of them would take an operational role — as I've already mentioned, about 20 or so of them would form the HQ element of the force.
The issue of red berets was to make them feel they had achieved something special in the eyes of the rest of the Frelimo Army, and that they had been trained by the Brits; in other words, they would appear an élite unit. And in our eyes that's what they were. They were certainly the most disciplined, switched-on troops we had seen in the country. This was not because we were the best instructors in the world, but because of the methods and attitude we managed to put over to them.
It was the day of the Passing-Out Parade, held at the airport, the only relatively flat stretch of concrete for miles around. Hundreds of locals turned out, as well as many dignitaries, ranging from the Province Commander and the Mayor to other local VIPs and two characters who had flown up from Maputo. No one really knew who they were. They weren't in uniform, but looked the part, if you know what I mean. Unsmiling and a bit strandoffish, they seemed a bit too clean-cut, big and healthy to be men from Mozambique. Jimmy reckoned they were spies for the Americans, working for the CIA, or perhaps something much more sinister.
But really we didn't know, and to be quite frank I didn't care. At this stage I wasn't interested in politics and the games politicians played. I've always had a great mistrust of people who play cloak-and-dagger — most of them are Walter Mitties, anyway. On the other hand, the Colonel didn't hold my view and was constantly looking over at them to see what they might be up to.
The camera crew was in action, filming the entire parade, and the soldiers quite rightly rose to the occasion. Most of them had never had a photo taken, let alone appeared in a movie. This obviously added to the atmosphere of the day, and was a really good morale booster for the soldiers. All parades give participants a feeling of achievement, but in this case having the camera crew filming as well was the cherry on the icing on the cake. It was the full monty!
After all the speeches, when passes were given to every man and his dog, including ourselves, the powers that be laid on a special dinner for us all, troops and specialists. The two CIA types and their entourage didn't attend, and were last seen heading off to their aircraft. The dinner was a simple outdoor affair; but then, most things in Mozambique at this time were rarely anything else. When the troops were served a good helping of meat and a can o
f beer each, they knew they had élite status.
The meat-and-beer meal was the first surprise of the day. The next happened during the dinner. Colonel Rameka told the troops when their first operation was to begin — tomorrow! Strangely, there was no great response. I would have expected some sort of reaction but there was no cheering or 'bumping'. They just clapped a bit and got on with eating. Dead strange. Then one of the younger officers got the troops to give the Colonel three cheers. There was more reaction to that than when they were told they were to start operations. One would have assumed that they would have at least been given leave of a week or two so they could go home and visit their nearest and dearest, especially as they'd had none since the course had started almost three months before. The trouble was, I was still trying to assess everything on British terms.
However the troops took it, this operational bombshell was also a big surprise to the training team. We had no idea that ops were going to start so quickly after the Passing-Out Parade. What was an even bigger shock was that we, the training team, were expected to go along with them!
4
ON DEATH'S TRACK
O nce again, the same rules applied as on the last threat of contact. 'We were not to get involved' — just as had been the case when it had been assumed that Renamo were heading south on to our position. This was strictly not allowed by London. We were only meant to act as advisors and not go on any military operations. 'It would be totally out of the question,' I remember London telling us via our in-country LO in Maputo the following day.
What London didn't know was that if we didn't go along on the convoy with the Special Forces, then the convoy commanders would refuse to as well. During the evening, it began to look as if we were scared of going with them, and from their point of view, it had nothing to do with London. We were soldiers just like them. They didn't understand the political implications of us Brits mounting offensive operations there, let alone getting killed on one. Picture a tabloid headline in UK: 'Ex-SAS men working undercover in war-torn Mozambique. Two killed in Renamo ambush.' That would definitely cause questions to be asked in the House of Commons.
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