No Fear

by Steve Devereux

  At this time, we still had no idea where the population of Gurué was. The locals' usual routine was to disappear into the hills during the night. In the morning those who had to go back into town for whatever reason did so; then, before last light, they would take off to the hills again. An HF radio link was sometimes established between Gurué and Cuamba, but at the best of times this was hit and miss. Since there had been no way of establishing radio contact with the town whilst en route, we had no idea who was actually now controlling the town.

  Meanwhile the sounds of the 'Zulu' chant and the tracked vehicle were getting louder with every passing second, but still nothing had broken over the horizon. It was an incredible feeling, waiting to see the first sign of movement atop the ridge. Brad had a quick talk with the force's captain.

  'Captain! I want some kind of rapid movement of hardware up here ASAP, and I mean RAPID!' Brad was not a happy bear.

  The captain did not reply — he merely obeyed.

  There was a lot of shouting, and a couple of the vehicles started up and were reversing slightly. Where we had stopped the track was still very much single lane, giving little chance of manoeuvring the vehicles quickly if the need arose. Panic amongst the freeloaders was beginning to set in and as I looked around, most were ready for the 'off' again. This was not helping my nerves, either.

  Brad had organised the two 20mm cannons to be up front, to line up alongside the BTR. The rest of the trucks were now slowly reversing out of sight. The force was organised in all-round defence, since the risk of being hit from behind and caught in a pincer-like movement was something we all wanted to avoid. This whole process took just a couple of minutes. Amazingly, it was difficult to persuade the hitchhikers to get out of the way. They seemed as keen as we were to discover what was heading our way.

  A slight breeze started blowing directly towards us, bringing the approaching noise closer. It wouldn't be long before it broke the ridge.

  'I spoke to the Captain. He says he's never heard of tanks or BRTs being stationed up in the town,' Brad said to no one in particular, indicating Gurué with his thumb.

  As the four of us stood waiting, I realised how absurd this situation might seem to an observer. We certainly would have failed if this had been an exercise back home in the Brecon Beacons. We were not as ready as we should have been. We had no cover from view and, at that moment, no cover from fire either. Just observing, listening, waiting. The thought that this could be my last stand really did pass through my mind, and I started to worry about all the 'what ifs', all the things back home I should have made time for; particularly spending more time with my daughter. Should have done this, should have done that. Then I snapped myself back into the real world. No way was I going to die today! I gripped my rifle tightly, immediately got into cover and found a good firing position. I was now in overdrive, all my senses up. I checked the ground to my front, left, right and rear, and took notice of possible fire positions — and covered escape routes, should I need to crawl away.

  Jimmy was close to me, going through his routine. It was as if, at a given time, a silent order had been given and we were all obeying it. Brad and Josh were doing exactly the same. They were working in pairs as well, on the opposite side to us.

  Jimmy had grabbed an RPG 7 and a couple of rounds from the back of the Land Rover and was now making it ready. I went through my usual weapons and kit check. That was OK.

  My actions were robotic. I constantly looked all around me for any signs that might affect the next few moments of my life, identifying positions of safety to move to, should we come under fire. I was also making myself aware of where the rest of the men were. Mind and body were in total overdrive. Sweat was pissing down the insides of my fatigues, and I felt a damp patch building up at the base of my spine as I moved my body from side to side. At least wearing a hat helped to soak up some of the sweat dripping off my face. It infuriated me, how much I sweated in situations like this, but it was something I had got used to over the years.

  A burst of adrenalin ripped through me, making my body shudder. Wet through from all the sweat, I suddenly felt as if I was freezing. For a brief moment a tingling sensation erupted in my head then was gone. I felt warm again, aware that the sun was now beating down on my back. I felt confident I could take on anything. I didn't feel scared. I felt no fear. All of this happened within two seconds. Then I noted a slight grating noise from one mag when the spring was depressed, caused by tiny particles of dust inside the mag. Experience told me that it was nothing to worry about. I pushed the ejected round back into the top of the mag and pulled it slightly back with the tip of my thumb. Four tracer rounds, my usual selection, were on top and the first one out was on the left-hand side. This told me that I had a full mag and hadn't lost any. I snapped the mags back on to the rifle and released the working parts, happy with the noise the working parts made as they went forward under spring pressure. I picked up the first round from the mag, locked it in position and rechecked the safety, plus the rear and fore sights.

  Lastly, I took the magazine off again and made sure that a round had indeed fed into the chamber. It had! I noted that the top round was now on the right, then snapped the mag back on to the weapon and gave it one last shake, just to make sure that it was secured in place. I also checked that the lengths of masking tape which bound them both together, and the tape which prevented the bottoms of the mags from dropping out, were all in good order.

  All the time I kept an eye on the ridge line, still sweating buckets. I had taken cover behind a huge brown sandstone-type rock, and now shifted my position to make myself as comfortable as one can in a situation like this.

  I didn't have long to wait. Figures broke the ridge line off to one side of the track, followed almost immediately by a large tracked vehicle.

  'What the fuck's that?' Jimmy grunted.

  'It looks like some kind of JCB! Can you see who they are?'

  'Looks like a right ragged bunch of fuckers.'

  My weapon was still held steady. The target was well out of range for most of us, but not for 20mms. Movement broke out to my left as the gun crews adjusted their positions and took aim at the oncoming horde. I could see no weapons as yet, but they were still bellowing their menacing war chant. This was the first time I'd encountered this kind of battle approach. I just imagined what it must have been like to be up against the British in previous battles, when the Jocks marched forward under the noise of the bagpipes. The enemy must have wondered, Who are these crazy fuckers coming towards us without rifles? I was having similar thoughts now!

  Still they came, still they chanted, still we could not make out if they were armed or not. As they got nearer, about 1000 metres distant, it became plain that the tracked vehicle was a road grader, a kind of large JCB without a bucket on the front, it was used to level off tracks or roads before tarmac was laid. Behind it was that chanting mass of people, coming forward all the time.

  Jimmy and I were still talking tactics when all of a sudden the war cries stopped and the grader and the mob behind it halted. Then there was an uproar. All the troops started cheering and shouting out to 'the enemy'. Jimmy and I looked at each other, worried looks on our faces, not sure if this was for real. Was it a staged ploy by Renamo or what? I'd learnt over the years never to take things at face value, especially in war; things have a habit of kicking you right in the balls when you least expect it. The entire team's attitude was never take the easy way out, so we stayed down while the troops around us carried on their cross-track screaming.

  'Mr Steve, Mr Steve! This is our welcoming party! The townsfolk have come out to greet us,' the captain shouted across to me.

  'How's that, Captain?'

  'I got them on the radio. It's all clear. The town is all clear, the grader is clearing the route for possible mines. I've just spoken to Eugene, the Provincial Commander, he's an old friend of mine. He says it's all clear.' The Captain sounded positively jubilant.

  The troops around
us were cheering. It was the first time I had witnessed so much happiness coming from these guys. Everyone was getting well excited. Nonetheless, I stayed pretty much where I was, and so did the rest of the team. What I could not figure was why any of the force hadn't told us that they had a HF radio channel on which they could call up the town's commander? Well, it didn't matter now. Anyway, lots of things had happened during this contract which we had not been informed about. I put this down as just one more.

  Slowly the grader made its way towards us. Brad gave the order that none of the troops was to go forward until the grader had cleared the route. Many of the civvies made their way across the fields, keeping well clear of the track, and I saw some of the crowd following the grader cut across the fields to greet our hitchhikers. The warlike chant (as it had earlier seemed to me) had now all but ceased. Both crowds were now singing and calling out to each other. If ever there was a hint of a party in the air, it was now. Our troops stood their ground with great restraint, I could feel it. They obviously wanted to break ranks and run forward to join in, but were still switched on, lying prone behind vehicles and rocks and still holding their fire positions. Every now and then some would get up and stretch, but they were swiftly ordered to get down again.

  Brad had heard a rather bizarre (but probably bullshit) rumour about this chap Eugene, Mayor of Gurué, from one of the many briefings he had attended with the Frelimo commanders back at Cuamba. There were many accounts apparently, but the best one was about when he, the Mayor, and two of his militia men, supposedly held off an 'almost certain' attack from Renamo by shooting dead two Renamo 'spies' who had come into the town at night on a recce. He then supposedly cut off their heads and put them on spikes at the entrance to the town, to say to Renamo that this was what would happen if they attacked. Well, Renamo didn't attack that particular time, so Eugene was a hero in the eyes of his people. The people of Gurué were not really that bright anyway, most of them were illiterate tea-pickers who would believe anything this self-styled hero told them. Later, when Renamo constantly attacked the people of Gurué after this event, Eugene would always have a credible answer for them, even while they waited up in the hills as Renamo trashed their homes below.

  From this tale we Brits formed our opinion of him. It might not be right to assess a person without actually meeting them, but we did; he was a complete arsehole, we decided. With that in mind, we all stayed pretty much under cover until the grader reached us. Even then, Jimmy and I didn't take part in the initial introductions to the townsfolk until we were completely satisfied that it was not a set-up.

  By now it was very hard to determine what was what because everyone was patting everyone else on the back, shaking hands, excitedly exchanging pleasantries. If this wasn't a set-up, then these militia men who had come to mine-clear the last part of our journey and to greet us like this were brave fuckers. Funny there was no sign of Mr Mayor, though!

  At this moment the grader turned on its axis and faced back towards the town. On all four sides sheets of ten-millimetre steel had been welded in place as mine-blast protection — even the driver perched high up had steel-plate protection. It looked like a huge World War I tank painted a rusty canary-yellow. It really did the job, though. Unlike a conventional mechanised mine-clearance vehicle, which would have large flails — a bit like the cylindrical cutting blades on a combined harvester — this machine only had a metal contraption welded on to the dozer blade. This would be scraped along the ground to detonate any mines before the tracks of the grader reached them. It looked as if it ought to work, especially as there had been no intelligence that Renamo had ever used anti-tank mines, only anti-personnel ones. *

  Any possible detonation damage would have been contained around the armoured blade. In fact, on the few occasions when the grader had made contact with a mine, this is exactly what had happened.

  The convoy followed the grader until we were waved on by its operator. Most of our hitchhikers had made their own way into town so we arrived in Gurué looking like the military unit we were, and not like a circus.

  We were the first friendly force to make it through Gurué in over 12 months.

  It was early evening. Hundreds of people turned out in welcome and we were treated as if we were real liberators. The scene of all these people cheering and waving flags was very moving. We felt like VIPs.

  For me personally, it was also a very humble experience to be greeted in this way. Having gone through each of the last 30 minutes thinking that it just might be my last on this planet; once again wondering if I was ever to see my daughter again; and now, experiencing this frenzied, party-like atmosphere, emotionally I was in bits as we drove into town.

  Women, children, the rest of the towns militia men, you name it, all were out in force. I imagined how the Allied troops must have felt when they rode into the towns and cities of occupied France at the end of World War II. It was a feeling I had never experienced before and don't think I ever will again. I couldn't even compare it to the feeling I had when I was one of the first troops to walk into Port Stanley, capital of the Falklands Islands, as a victorious paratrooper, before the official surrender, back in 1982. Then, the feeling of victory was one of relief — relief that it was all over. There were no jubilant crowds to meet us — they were locked away under house arrest, their fate still undecided. All there was then was a greyness in the air, death, and a battered, demoralised and defeated army. For me it felt like an empty victory, unlike the sensations I experienced now in Gurué. These people had been cut off from civilisation for almost a year. The odd aircraft flying in onto a make-shift airstrip to deliver vital supplies was the only friendly visit they had to look forward to. We were definitely a contrast to their other 'visitors'. When Renamo appeared, causing the people of Gurué to flee, they would crap in their homes and steal what little property was there. No wonder that the townspeople were happy to see us. As we drove along I wondered whether they believed we were here to save them. I had a suspicion they thought we were!

  6

  TEA ATTACK

  G urué is a brilliantly colourful town sitting on a vast plateau surrounded by thousands of acres of tea plantations. The hues of the trees and shrubs, and the views, are breathtaking; the different shades of green from the variety of shrubs mixed with the browns and reds of the trees made the place a definite setting for an artist's Garden of Eden.

  This was especially so when we rode into the town this particular evening. The sun was slowly setting and its rays reflected off the tea bushes, as though the entire plantation was covered in a huge sheet of tin-foil. Very spectacular at the time, but I don't want to sound self-indulgent — like most of the wonderful locations I have served in, its beauty was soon forgotten due to the pressing circumstances of the operation.

  The town was very like Cuamba, with old colonial-style villas. As we approached it, I saw for the first time what exactly tea 'on the bush' looked like — quite honestly, it was as ordinary as your suburban privet! The track cut through this plantation was only about one-vehicle wide. There was a one-and-a-half metre bank either side of it, and the tea bushes literally started on top of these then stretched out as far as one could see to the right and left. We were now on rising ground, leading to a summit where the town was.

  Once inside Gurué we approached what looked like the centre, a large paved square with a make-shift wooden stage in the middle. On top, I sensed, would be Eugene. I was right. He was dressed in a very loud Hawaii Five 0 disco shirt, surrounded by a dozen or so of his armed militia men. As he stood up all the townsfolk stopped their cheering and waited in anticipation for what was obviously going to be a stunt for his benefit. Then both officers in charge of the Special Forces marched up to greet him. It was comical. They came to attention and saluted. Eugene saluted back. Then hugs and kisses were exchanged and they turned to face us, the convoy. Most of our troops had dismounted, including Jimmy and myself. However, we both stood close by the Land Rover, fearing our per
sonal kit might go missing if we left it and moved forward.

  A five-minute speech ensued followed by more cheering, back-patting and, once again, ego-stroking. We had to show our respect, too — after all, Eugene was the main man here and obviously commanded the respect of the town. No point in pissing him off at the start, even though our opinion of him was less than high.

  He greeted us 'Specialists' one at a time, shaking hands and introducing himself as the Mayor and 'Protector of the People'. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us. What's more, he spoke very good English: That's a plus, I remember thinking. He was a big lump, about 6 feet 4, 18 stone and 40-ish. Not fat exactly, but not well-built either. I couldn't help thinking of the similarity between him and Idi Amin — the colourful shirts and the grin as wide as the Victoria Falls.

  A lot of things happened in the following two hours, which was all the time we had before night fell. We organised the securing of the town by identifying sentry positions at the only three routes in and out, then secured the trucks and posted guards on them as well, tried to sort out some kind of intelligence on recent Renamo movements, and finally found a place to crash for the night.